Epilogue
"Sherlock, you- where have you been hiding this at for the past three weeks?" a sandy-blonde-haired man hissed, looking towards his flatmate.
"Oh, under the bed," replied a dark, curly-haired man of a taller status replied, drawing a cloth across the hairs of a violin bow held in his fingers.
"You'd go to any lengths, wouldn't you?" the shorter man questioned, shaking his head with a smile.
It was clear by their interactions that these two were very close. Their relationship might have seemed strange to those who didn't know them, and even to those who did. There were constant questions, constant allusions, not to mention some very astounding facts that tended to skew most people's thoughts. One of the group was very firm on their relationship, the other couldn't be bothered to care what exactly people thought.
But, they were friends. The famous consulting detective and blogger, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. They were friends.
"Of course I would, you're familiar my methods of experimentation," the taller one, the consulting detective, the man with the name of Sherlock replied. He waved a hand dismissively, as if hiding an experiment under the bed was the most normal thing for him to do. In reality, it was. And his companion knew that it was, too.
"God knows," replied John, the ever-faithful companion, blogger, doctor. Lover of many things, Sherlock included, in a platonic and quiet sense of the word. Emotions, let alone love, were rarely expressed in this flat, in 221B Baker Street. Not from either of the men, anyway. Love was a foreign concept to Sherlock Holmes, not to John, but nonetheless, it was a path that neither of them wanted to bring up.
There was a sense of love in the bond between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. They weren't gay, John Watson would say, at least, he wasn't. Sherlock Holmes' sexuality was another question in itself, one that would probably never be solved. It didn't matter. Sherlock Holmes only had one friend, and that friend was his flatmate, his blogger, his assistant. John Watson.
"Did you pick up milk today?" John mused aloud, fingers curling around the refrigerator door before he pulled it open. "No. No... you didn't. Sherlock, I asked you to go to the store."
"I was incapacitated by the need to solve this murder today. Lestrade was insisting."
"Sherlock, you solved that case last week!"
"Oh, I know, I just like to keep him on edge." A brief, sardonic smile passed Sherlock's lips, lifting them in a smile that was strange for Sherlock Holmes.
"The real reason here was that you didn't want to go to the store, right?" John asked, closing the fridge again. There was nothing in it, anyway. Not that he would eat food from it. He had discovered that he harboured an intense, terrible love for take-away ever since he had found the first severed head in their fridge. (Or Mrs. Hudson's cooking. God bless Mrs. Hudson and her cooking.)
"Obviously," Sherlock replied, drawing the bow across the strings of his violin. John sighed and relinquished his search for something to eat; instead, he moseyed back into the living room and sank into his chair.
Sherlock Holmes had many eccentricities about him, the strangest being his lack of emotions. He also had a lack of appetite, a general distaste for anything considered 'normal', problems with boredom, a love of the abnormal, but one of his more tasteful habits was to play the violin. Except when he played the violin at two in the morning, John enjoyed that habit of Sherlock's.
"Composing?" John inquired after a few moments of unrecognizable music.
"Mm," Sherlock replied in lieu of an actual response. John thought it meant 'yes'.
"What's the occasion?"
"Thinking."
"About?"
Sherlock paused, his bow coming to a halt against the violin strings. There seemed to be a pause where he put together an explanation in his head, where he seemed on the verge of saying something. But, a moment later, he'd repositioned the bow and the music filled the air again.
John rolled his eyes and grabbed the newspaper off of the floor, straightening it out before opening it.
It was just another day at 221B Baker Street. A day full of silence, or music, of crime, or deductions, of boredom, or excitement, of experiments, or idleness... No matter what the day had it store, it would always see the unbreakable bond between two friends: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
It was incredibly difficult to write in this POV. xD You've no idea. Besides that, the sort-of-not-really-related epilogue!
The end there, where John asks what Sherlock is thinking about... In my mind, Sherlock's thinking about his new found friendship, thinking about John and wondering how he ended up being friends with him. However, it's up to you what you think he's thinking about.
Now, dearies, review your heart out! If you've followed it from the start, leave your thoughts. (there were people reviewing Chapter One that I haven't seen since, so if you're there... -Waves frantically- Speak to me! :P) I appreciate you all. It means so much.
If you need a new multi-chapter, I've started a new one called Returning to Life. It's not terribly plot-ridden, but it's just a lot of dealing with events immediate after The Great Game. Would love to get my fans from here transferred to there. :)