Epilogue

Thank you to everyone who has read this and given it a go!

January 2010

He had a while before he needed to examine the bruises. Determined to be efficient, Sherlock gazed down the microscope at the bacteria, noting the patterns as he compared the results to the pictured evidence.

"You forgot this in the morgue," John announced, tossing the crop onto the table beside the microscope. "Think you might have gotten Molly's hopes up," he scolded cheekily.

"You are far too young to be combining a riding crop with forms of sexual deviancy," Sherlock muttered as he adjusted the focus.

There was a loud crunch as John bit into his apple. "I'm fourteen," John huffed. "Not four."

Sherlock raised his eyes; briefly taking in the messy uniform, the slight stain on his shoulder, knees and trouser hem from where he'd been messing around with the football at break and lunch. The ink on his finger, too fresh too have been from the school day, but pressed into a certain spot only used when John actually attempted to make his writing legible…

"Clearly," Sherlock looked back down. "Four year olds are not given detention."

"I'm eating an apple," John offered. "Saving you from nagging. I'm pretty sure the two balance out."

"What was it for?"

A glance back up had him catching the crimson flush on John's cheeks.

"Love letters?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really John, do try to be a little more invent-"

"It was not a love letter," John said, with all the horror of a teenage boy. "It was a note. A question," he remedied. "And the lesson was boring."

He was actually telling the truth for once, Sherlock thought, rather than attempting his usual claims because he knew Sherlock would sympathise with the feeling.

"I need your phone."

"No," John hunched away.

Without looking, Sherlock held out his hand and clicked his fingers, then laid his palm flat demandingly.

"No-one else's dad nicks their phone," John complained, the words muffled around his apple as he bit into it to free his hands to pat around his pockets.

"No one else's dad let you play in a morgue from the age of ten. Pick your battles," Sherlock suggested as he felt the weight of the phone placed in his hand. It was tempting to check which girl's number was on his phone to deduce which girl it was he liked, but, while John had avoided many of his own less appealing traits, the ability to dig his heels in and stubbornly resist advice he hadn't asked for was one of the ones they shared and so, reluctantly, he simply sent the text.

"Green ladder?" John asked, reading the text as Sherlock handed him back the phone. "Stupid colour to paint a ladder," he muttered to himself as he put the phone away. "So will you be back tonight?"

"I've almost finished," Sherlock said. "Half an hour."

"Your half an hour or Mycroft's half an hour?" John asked with a grin.

"Brat."

"Lestrade was doing a press conference today," John said conversationally as he hoisted himself up on the table facing Sherlock's. "He had his 'I want to kill Sherlock' face on."

"You watched?"

John nodded. "Snuck out during lunch," he said sweetly. "You still think there'll be another suicide."

"Murder," Sherlock corrected absently. "It has to be. They'll slip up soon enough."

"There's a big interest in it," John pointed out. "Even Adam at school knows about it and usually he doesn't know jack shit unless it's been on a music channel."

"You have a point?"

"Just…it'll be a good case. But you'll get reporters."

"People are stupid, they forget," Sherlock dismissed.

"Mm," John said, clearly not convinced as he hopped down. The boy was full of beans tonight. "You want a tea?"

"Coffee. Molly was doing it."

Muttering something derogative about coffee under his breath, John walked to the door then, in a manner that was reminiscent of Sherlock's father, paused and turned.

"I…would you mind. If people read about what you did?"

"I fail to see how it is of any importance," Sherlock slid the slide off the microscope. "Why?"

"My English teacher suggested I write something outside of school, you know, like a blog? But…I don't want to write about me. My mates will read it and think I've gone emo or something."

Emo? Sherlock shook his head, rather sure he had deleted that at some point. "And?"

"Could I write about you instead?"

"If you must."

"You never know," John's voice danced back to teasing. "It might end up as a film. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective."

"Consulting detective," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How many times must I explain to your thick friends-"

"The kinky detective," John tried with a pointed look at the crop.

"Now you're being-"

"The name's Sherlock Holmes," John said, his hands in the air as if drawing the words in the sky. "And the address is 221b Baker Street."

And then, with a pleased smile, he ducked out of the room leaving Sherlock shaking his head at his dramatic idiot of a son.

Still, the phrase did have a good ring to it. He might have to use it himself one day.

Unless someone actually looked at that bloody blog.

End