EPILOGUE

In retrospect, John's encounters with the Doctor felt more like a dream than anything else. For a few weeks after the Doctor left, John watched Sherlock carefully. John waited for the day he would walk into their flat to find another man in Sherlock's body, or the day Sherlock found an old-fashioned watch on a case. He waited for the day it turned out that Genius's careful planning wasn't careful enough. But then weeks turned into months and John started to relax.

They didn't hear very much from the Doctor, but then John never expected to. John did as he promised and put up a photo on the blog so that the Doctor could see how they were getting on. He chose the photo with the Doctor in mind, even—Sherlock's deerstalker wasn't exactly cool, but John thought the Doctor would enjoy seeing it nonetheless. Sherlock's super-serious expression in the photo, the one that he made as if to spite the ridiculous hat, only made the entire thing more amusing. John imagined the Doctor in his TARDIS, probably off somewhere in the middle of space, seeing the blog post and the photo pop up on his monitor. John hoped he made the man smile.

Then, on Christmas morning, John woke up early and couldn't go back to sleep. On impulse he wandered downstairs and found two presents on the landing. Only one of them was thin enough to be pushed through the mail slot, but John supposed the larger present wouldn't have posed a problem for a man with an alien screwdriver that opened any lock. There wasn't any question where the gifts came from, not with the items wrapped in paper coloured that still-familiar shade of blue.

The larger present was marked 'John.' It was also marked 'to open in case of emergencies,' so John made sure to hide the present before he handed Sherlock his own blue box.

He watched as Sherlock carefully unwrapped a bright red bow tie. Sherlock didn't wear bow ties, but that didn't stop the detective from jumping out of bed, utterly delighted, and hurrying off to the kitchen to search for proof that the ordinary-looking tie was actually from another planet. He must have run every experiment he could possibly think up, because John caught Sherlock wearing the bow tie around their flat the day before New Year's, pulling at the fabric uncomfortably and occasionally checking his watch. When John asked what he was doing, Sherlock scowled, embarrassed, in response. John tried, rather unsuccessfully, to stop himself from giggling.

"So what did the Doctor get you, then?" Sherlock had asked.

"Oh, I think this," John gestured to Sherlock in his bow tie and his scowl, "is probably present enough." But then he squeezed Sherlock's hand—he'd been doing quite a bit of that lately, little touches, seeing if it would be welcome—to take the edge off his words.

Sherlock had smiled at that, even. Then Sherlock refused to let go of John's hand for a good, slightly awkward, minute. John had watched the seconds tick by on Sherlock's watch. John couldn't bring himself to actually look up at Sherlock—partially because John wasn't sure he felt ready for whatever emotion, good or bad, that was waiting for him in Sherlock's eyes, and partially because John honestly wasn't certain whether he could look at Sherlock's face without losing it over the bow tie all over again. That would be horrid, if Sherlock mistook his laughter as ridicule over the hand-holding. No, best to keep his eyes down, John thought. Still, he couldn't help the way his heart beat a little faster at the fact that Sherlock wouldn't let go.

Then On New Year's Eve, Sherlock muttered something about "horrid traditions" and kissed John. John pulled back, took a deep breath, and realized he didn't feel worried or put off at all. Surprised? Yes. Happy? Very much so. Desperate for more? Er, well.

It had been a good night.

They had a few good—very good—months together. That is, until they lost the Moriarty trial. Then John's entire world broke apart, piece by tiny piece, even without Sherlock opening the fob watch app on his phone.

Then somehow John found himself struggling to breathe, found himself listening to Sherlock's bloody "note" as his brand-new boyfriend watched him from atop the roof of St. Bart's, found himself crying out Sherlock's name, found himself staring at Sherlock's bleeding body, and found himself helpless as his body was pushed away by paramedics. John realized in that moment that the Doctor has been dead wrong. The Doctor had said the world wasn't safe for Time Lords, fair enough, but this world hadn't been bloody safe for Sherlock Holmes, either. John should have told Sherlock about the Genius while he still had the chance. If Sherlock had a TARDIS and two hearts, if he wasn't Sherlock Holmes anymore, then obviously he would have been able to survive whatever torture Moriarty used to get him to jump off that roof. He would have had more bloody resources. He would have survived.

He would have survived.

If John had only known, he could have told Sherlock about the app. Sherlock would become the Genius and found another TARDIS of his own. The Genius would have been able to run away. Unlike Sherlock, the Genius never would have had to face Moriarty at all.

Now John was alone, yet everything in their flat reminded him of Sherlock Holmes. Even the flat itself. He saw Sherlock in the wallpaper, in the floorboards, in that stain on the kitchen table. After Sherlock died John sat in his usual chair, looking at the empty space where Sherlock should be, and he knew he had to go. He couldn't stay in 221B alone.

John had stood and pulled back the chair's cushion. There it was, still safe in its hiding spot, the Doctor's bloody Christmas present.

To open in case of emergencies. That's what it said on the wrapping. Maybe the Doctor's gift would have helped. Another resource, wasted.

John thought to himself that he probably he ought to throw the gift away. It wouldn't do him any good now that Sherlock was gone, would it? But John found himself holding fast to the blue-wrapped present, found himself carefully undoing the wrapping paper. He picked away the tape on the back, unfolded the paper around the seams.

He found a red book, the exact same colour as Sherlock's tie. He read the book's title and felt like he had been slapped in the face.

The Complete Sherlock Holmes, it read. By Arthur Conan Doyle.

John didn't want to touch the book, but John opened it anyway. There were two inscriptions marked on the inside cover. The word Spoilers! had been scrawled across over a dark red lipstick print. John realized distantly that this must have been River Song's handiwork. Below the kiss, in entirely different handwriting, the second inscription read, To Dr. John Watson: Your own Journal of Impossible Things. Love, the Doctor.

John had flipped through the pages, scrunching his eyes to make out very small print. He sat down in the chair again and he read and read and read. He read as though he could somehow lose himself in the stories and never come out again.

They weren't quite right, the stories. They weren't about him and Sherlock. But they were close enough, in a way. John read about those odd other-people with their exact same names, about some other man named Sherlock who didn't give one whit about the solar system. John read, and mourned, and he even smiled a bit at the knowledge that Sherlock would've been very miffed to learn he wasn't actually the only consulting detective in the world.

John wanted to put the book down and never look at it again. He wanted to read it over and over again, so that every word would be permanently imprinted into his mind. He had smiled when he read "A Scandal in Bohemia," even though he wasn't quite sure why. He had frowned when he read "The Final Problem," when he had to read about some other-him attempt to cope with some other-Sherlock's death. At the first mention of Moriarty's name something sharp seemed to pinch at his insides. But he finished the story, because he had to, because he couldn't help himself. Then he hated himself all the more because somehow both Sherlock Holmeses were dead. That hadn't even made sense—one of them was completely fictional! But in spite of all that, it felt to John as though he had killed them both.

But then John held the half-finished book in his hands and realized something was off. He flipped ahead through the remainder of the pages, spotting Sherlock's name again and again. It hadn't made any sense. If both Sherlocks were dead, how could there possibly be so many stories left in Mr. Doyle's book?

John read about the Empty House, about "a Norwegian named Sigerson," about all the cases the other John and Sherlock still had left together. He read and read and somewhere along the way he felt something shift inside himself. Somewhere along the way John had stopped reading to escape, and started reading to...well. To hope, he supposed.

John held the back cover of the book open between his fingers. He couldn't bring himself to close the final page. It felt as though he had missed something. The other Sherlock had never been dead. Other John Watson had simply missed the clues. Maybe he himself had missed clues, too.

Sherlock dropped his phone, hadn't he, just before he jumped? Maybe, John reasoned, maybe Sherlock wasn't actually Sherlock when he jumped. That day John had travelled in time without even realizing, back when they were sitting in the TARDIS together, the Doctor told John that Time Lords didn't die like everyone else. After Sherlock jumped the paramedics pushed John away. They carted Sherlock off. Maybe Sherlock had opened the app already, maybe after the paramedics took Sherlock away he had shocked them all and regenerated. One final trick. Maybe John had really heard Sherlock say goodbye, maybe that part had been honest…but maybe his Sherlock turned into the Genius after that, and maybe his friend wasn't actually gone.

John realized the hope was growing stronger still.

Maybe Sherlock was off seeing the stars now, or the planets, or meeting other alien societies. Maybe right now Sherlock—the Genius—was solving a crime on Mars.

The Doctor had said the Genius would still remember John, even if he changed. Maybe his Genius would return. Or maybe not. But maybe he was still out there, somewhere.

John would never know.

No, that wasn't true, John realized. That wasn't true at all.

The day after Sherlock died, John scrambled into their bedroom and opened his bedside table drawer. He picked up the hot pink kazoo resting there, right next to his gun.

He held it up to his mouth and blew.

The blog entry (complete with photo!) that John mentions in the epilogue is an actual entry on the BBC's tie-in blog. Just look for the post entitled "The Six Thatchers."

And that's it! Thanks for everyone who stuck with this fic, and to those just discovering and reading it now. I hope you enjoyed it!

I value all feedback (the positive, the negative, and the confused!) so I'd love to hear what you thought. : )