Chapter 20: Epilogue

Time went on.

The search for Moran dwindled with time as they found nothing. She did not crop up again, and nor had a body been recovered. The case turned cold as other criminals and cases caught the attention of the residents of Baker Street.

Life adjusted in 221B to normality as Sherlock returned to his life there, John stopped his mourning, and Sophie came to know her biological father.

Six months later, a card came in the mail without a return address. Sherlock opened it, his expression one of boredom before turning sharply to interest.

The front of the card depicted a cartoonish stork carrying a pink bundle in its beak. Congratulations on your little girl! was printed on the front. He opened the card and froze as a photograph fell out and he read the calligraphic writing inside.

Sorry, John, I lied about my ability to swim.

Sherlock, you two keep yours and I keep mine. Deal?

— Semira Moran

PS, Jim sends his love.

The enclosed photo was of two people: a woman with dark auburn hair, smug blue eyes, and a tan that spoke of much time spent outdoors, and a slender man with short black hair, dark eyes, and a wide smirking grin. He had an arm around his companion's waist. Sherlock could see the outline of a gun strapped to her hip underneath her jacket.

Jim Moriarty and Semira Moran.

Well. Both lived, it seemed. Unsurprising, really. If the detective could fake falling from a building, he had no doubt they could fake their own deaths as well.

In the background, though. New York City—with its famously recognizable skyline.

His eyes did not miss the matching rings on their left ring fingers. (He had never taken Moriarty for the marrying type and supposed it may not be official.)

They were gone to the States and out of his hair. The detective would keep an eye out, but he doubted either consulting criminal or assassin would coming looking for trouble.

After a moment, Sherlock laid the card and photo on the mantel beside the skull.

John and Sophie would be getting back from Tesco's soon anyway. He'd promised to play his violin for Sophia.

He would tell John about it later, he decided as he heard John and his daughter coming up the stairs. He could think about it later. For now, it quite seemed as if everything would be just fine. And he pitied the foolish person who would attempt to make it otherwise.

Sherlock Holmes smiled, standing before the window, looking out to Baker Street below as he raised his violin and began to play.