Epilogue

FIRE AT DURHAM UNIVERSITY DESTROYS MATHEMATICAL SCIENCES WING

The Mathematical Sciences wing at Durham University was destroyed last night in a sudden fire. Arson is suspected, but authorities have arrested no suspects so far.

Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes was called up north to investigate, but he declines to comment on the nature of the fire. His Protector Assistant, John Watson, believes it had been perpetrated to hide something.

"We're not sure what it was – Sherlock'll figure it out in the end, though – but it probably was arson and it probably was caused by someone who doesn't want us to know what was hidden in that wing."

Of course, Watson must be referring to the secrets of the late Maths Professor James Moriarty, whose identity has been firmly confirmed as such by the state in a series of press releases last month. The Moriarty papers, a notebook detailing a shocking plethora of information on the criminal underworld of our Empire, are in state custody and not available for public perusal. Apparently Moriarty had been a criminal mastermind in the likeness of Thief-Taker Jonathan Wild, the arch-nemesis of the ancestor of our current Consulting Detective.

"There were things in there that we'll never know about him, I think," says Watson. "It's not that the mystery will be unsolved; it's just that we're not going to get a complete picture."

It could be that the fire was started by the university itself, in order to destroy all traces of Moriarty from its campus. It could be that the fire was started by one of Moriarty's followers. Either way, Holmes and Watson seem to believe that the fire has achieved its purpose, and that the last traces of James Moriarty are now firmly beyond the grasp of law.

The Mathematical Sciences wing will be rebuilt before the Michaelmas term begins.

"You think it was the Anarchists?" John asked as Sherlock examined the things that the Police M.A.T.I.N.s had managed to unearth from the rubble of the fire. Amid several badly-charred copies of Moriarty's books, they had discovered a painting by Jean-Baptiste Greuze. The painting had fortunately escaped the worst of the damage; after a little restoration work it would be donated to an art museum.

"Possibly," Sherlock replied. "We've no proof."

"True." John knelt down next to Sherlock as the man continued to adjust his magnifying goggles as he inspected the charred bits of a clockwork droid. "Isn't that a voice-box?" he asked.

Sherlock pressed a button on the box. Static rang out for a couple of seconds, but soon a woman's voice echoed through the room. She had a Czech accent, a very familiar Czech accent.

"That's the voice of Miss Wenceslas," Sherlock muttered, listening to the woman's voice.

Do you remember the Thief-Taker? You were the Thief-Taker. The government attempted to suppress your memories, but here I am to unlock them for you. Remember this man? His name is Sherlock Holmes. Obviously you know him already – but now you must be on your guard. Sherlock Holmes is coming after you. You are the Thief-Taker.

"Suggestibility. He purposefully made her implant the memories into his head."

"Oh." John crossed his arms, leant against the wall as Sherlock continued to listen. After a moment, he checked his watch. "Wait a moment, it's already half thirteen."

"What?" Sherlock looked up, bewildered.

"It's half thirteen. We're going to be late to our own wedding if you keep on examining that voice-box."

"Cogs." Sherlock clapped a hand to his forehead. "We have the witnesses, right?"

John couldn't help it; he began to laugh. "Are we solving a murder or getting married, Sherlock?"

"Good question." Sherlock got up, smiling, and extended a hand to his Protector. "We may have to run to Whitehall with traffic like it is today." They linked hands and dashed out of the room, out of Scotland Yard just as a double-decker airbus came hovering through. Sherlock took one look at it and started rethinking their travel plans.

"Oh no," groaned John.

"Come on!" Sherlock dragged the two of them to the airbus and boarded, heading straight for the pilot. A few bribes and threats later, the airbus was dramatically changing its course, heading straight for the Notary Office in Whitehall. Satisfied, Sherlock turfed a fourteen-year old out of his indolent sprawl across three seats and plopped down. John sat next to him, shaking his head in amusement.

"I can't believe you just hijacked an airbus," he muttered.

Sherlock merely turned up his collar smugly.

In the end they arrived at their wedding five minutes late. Mycroft looked extremely displeased yet slightly resigned. Anthea, on the other hand, smirked at them from behind her mobile.

"I'm a busy man, you know," the Officiator sighed as the two of them made their way to his desk in the Notary Office. "I've got other couples to marry. You're holding up the proceedings."

"Clockwork weddings. How romantic," Sherlock deadpanned. "You do know we hijacked an airbus to get here? We were in the middle of a case."

"Sherlock, now isn't the time," John sighed. "Shall we?"

"Yes, please." The Officiator examined the room. Aside from Mycroft and Anthea, the other witnesses for this extremely private ceremony were Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade sat next to Mycroft; Mrs. Hudson was testing out a new pair of knitting gauntlets, admiring the clockwork movements that worked the needles.

The Officiator cleared his throat. "Today we herald the binding of two gears – two souls – in the clockwork apparatus of our society. With these vows that they say today, these two faithful souls will dedicate the rest of their lives to each other in sickness and in health, in happiness and in sorrow. Though the winds of time and change may rust their gears and shatter their bolts, may the love that they share, the love that we cement today, last through all obstacles, even death."

Sherlock and John exchanged amused glances at that.

"Will you, Sherlock Holmes, take John Hamish Watson to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I will," Sherlock replied.

"And will you, John Hamish Watson, take Sherlock Holmes to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I will," John stated, slipping his hand into Sherlock's and squeezing lightly. Sherlock reached into his inside breast pocket and pulled out a list. He looked at John, smirking, and began to intone his vows.

"My dearest John, I will love you eternally and beyond. I ask you to share this world with me, for good and ill, and to commit our lives together for all the days to come. I will also not perform any experiments on you without your consent –" there he murmured something that sounded like 'can't make any promises' under his breath, "– and I will be faithful to you as long as I live."

John laughed quietly at that; Sherlock rolled his eyes good-naturedly. The Officiator arched both eyebrows, but said nothing.

It was now John's turn to say his vows; he suddenly felt a squirming nervousness in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock's eyes, however, reassured him as he smiled shakily and said, "My dearest Sherlock, I will love you eternally and beyond. I ask you to share this world with me, for good and ill, and to commit our lives together for all the days to come. I will be your Protector and your conductor of light, and I will be faithful to you as long as I live."

"Please present the rings." At that, John reached down to his utility belt and pulled out a black box containing two rings, engraved with their initials and a small clockwork design. They took the rings and slipped them onto each others' fingers, entwining them when they were done.

"I give you this ring with a clockwork design, to show that forever your heart will be mine. Though we may not be droids, this much is true – the gears of my heart will turn only for you." They said this in unison – it was the traditional ring-exchange saying. As the golden rings caught the light of the room, the gears engraved on them seemed to turn in affirmation.

"In the eyes of this society and Empire, I now pronounce you married. You may seal this commitment with a kiss."

As they did so, the Officiator signed the license and passed it around for the witnesses to sign as well. Sherlock and John were the last to sign; once that was done; the two newlyweds were quickly shepherded out of the room by Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson to a nearby cab. Everyone moved extremely fast in the hopes of missing the press.

Sometimes it was hard for a relatively private detective to avoid having a public image. The wedding of said detective to his Protector Assistant would be one of those times. Luckily, Sherlock had managed to grab a hat to conceal his face as he left.

Unluckily, it was the deerstalker.

It was later that night, as the two lay spent and entwined in their bed at Baker Street, when John's thoughts turned forward to their weekend at Holmes Manor – and beyond.

"Are you going to keep bees, Sherlock?" he asked, tracing the outline of his newly-wedded husband's lips in the dark. They had agreed to avoid hyphens or taking each others' names – John's name stayed as Watson and Sherlock's as Holmes. They had also agreed not to mention their marriage to Mary until she returned from Peking on leave; she would probably refuse to talk to them for weeks if she found out that they got hitched without her as a witness.

"They are intriguing," Sherlock replied noncommittally, pressing a gentle kiss to John's cheek. "Did you know they communicate through dance? The exact patterns of their dance will tell the rest of the hive where the food is – what angle to fly in and how far it is from the hive."

John laughed. "I'd hope that you could wait until retirement to start tinkering with bees, but I did discover some mechanical hives in my old room the other day."

"'Twas an experiment," Sherlock grunted.

"Obviously." John kissed a line down Sherlock's jaw. "Thinking of continuing the Practical Handbook of Bee Culture?"

"Obviously," replied Sherlock, sighing contentedly into John's ear. "Go to sleep, John."

"I love you too, Sherlock."

But John didn't go to sleep, not even after Sherlock did and began to snore softly next to him. John continued to look out the window of Sherlock's room, at the bright moon and the stars, mostly obscured by the smog of London.

He stayed up long enough to see the lightening of the skies, to see the grey daybreak curl into rosy dawn. London awoke with whistles and engines, with a roar and a tinkle as the Factories spun into life and life went on.

It was early morning.

Notes: Finally! Done! I would like to thank everyone who has read, favourited, alerted, and/or reviewed this story. It's been fun sharing this world with you. I'm hoping to be able to play with it more in one-shots or even original fiction.

I would like to acknowledge practically everyone in the Holmesian fandom whose works I've referred to - obviously Arthur Conan Doyle for being the one who started it all, and Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, Steve Thompson, and the ridiculously talented Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman for bringing the modern retelling to life. Less obviously I would like to acknowledge Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce for the persistent name-stealing, Eve Titus and Disney for the Great Mouse Detective references, and Guy Ritchie for the shameless stealing of the 'Sherlock in drag on a train' arc.

I would also like to acknowledge Roald Dahl for giving me the Landlady storyline used in the Copper Beeches arc, Limecake for giving me the S.T.R.B.C.K acronym, my friends at school and on Tumblr for their constant support and help (especially April and Leah; you two are awesome), and everyone involved in the steampunk... fandom? for inspiration.

Thank you once again for reading.