Epilogue - Conclusion

One year later John had found a job as a GP in a small, but well run London clinic. He had never found out whether his new bosses were so impressed by his medical skills and his rather uncommon career, or if one of the Holmes brothers had had a hand in the arrangement. To be honest, he didn't care much. He liked the job in the A&E department, and he liked even better the fact that it felt like a new beginning. Nobody was interested in his past. Nobody displayed any open curiosity where his private life was concerned.

He didn't miss Bart's or his old colleagues. After all, he had spent his worst years working at that hospital day and night, trying to escape an empty flat, filling his life with a job which was a constant reminder of what was and what could have been. At that time he had found it quite fitting to work in the same building from which his friend had jumped, to spend his days in the same building where his body had been kept in the days after. Or so he thought...

To punish himself constantly.

No, he didn't miss that part. His new job was satisfying, and if it was not always as thrilling as he might have wished, the rest of his life more than compensated for that.

On the other hand John was a patient himself now. He had to visit his doctor regularly for check-ups. He still felt grateful in William's presence, although he knew that this was probably a bit irrational.

'But you know, the bearer of a message...' John shrugged his shoulders and smiled. It had really been a good message.

And then there was the third aspect of his new life. A life he once again shared with Sherlock Holmes. This part of his existence so full of excitement and madness that it outshined all the dullness of everyday life. He probably even needed the mundane routine of his days to stay grounded when life was once again thrilling, soaring with danger, being whirled around by his high-flying lunatic.

When he returned from work this special evening he wondered briefly if Sherlock had remembered the anniversary as well. Exactly one year ago, he had been diagnosed with sarcoidosis. And that was only one of the good things which had happened on that day. He smiled as always when he thought back. It had been the best year of his life.

Back home he wasn't much surprised not to find any signs of his flatmate other than the usual mess the man always left behind. Lestrade hadn't come up with a case in the last few days to occupy Sherlock's unruly mind, so he probably was still at Bart's. No issues with working again in that place, unlike himself.

With his first cup of tea for the evening, John returned to the living room, intending to spend the quiet and peaceful time before Sherlock's return in his armchair, relaxing, thinking, perhaps reading this new book...

He didn't get that far. On the mantelpiece leaning against the skull sat an envelope. John was written on it. Distinctly in Sherlock's handwriting.

John exhaled; he hadn't realised that he was holding his breath.

'Easy,' he told himself. 'This may not mean anything.'

But he couldn't help himself. Ever since that last note, he dreaded any message from Sherlock other than his perpetual texts on the mobile. And this was most definitely a letter, he thought, ripping open the envelope with slightly trembling fingers.

He read.

John

Don't look so alarmed, this is not my last note. Don't be stupid! You should know by now that this has been the best year of my life, so far.

John looked stunned. What was the idiot thinking? But he could not deny a warm glow of relief. He took a deep breath and went on.

John, this letter is about something which I cannot tell you. I have thought about it a great deal, and I would estimate that after a whole year it is time that I should speak it out loud, but I honestly can't. So I will try to write it down.

We have never spoken about your disease very much, and sometimes I wonder how much it weighs on you. I for my part try to disregard it, most of the time, because it is something which is completely out of my reach. Be assured that I have done my research thoroughly, and that I am very well aware of what the future might bring us. I can tell you all the organs that might be affected, and I can list any complication that might occur.

This is not a puzzle that can be solved by mere intellect. And that is why it scares me.

I know I will never be able to help you, once the sarcoidosis breaks out fully. Yet, I am determined to never again leave you alone, whatever comes.

So, if the sarcoidosis affects your eyes, let me watch out for you. And if it affects your skin, let me cover you. If it affects your bones I will carry you, and I will share my last breath with you, if it affects your lungs. Please don't let it affect your brain. Mine would never be enough.

But if sarcoidosis ever affects your heart, don't feel frightened, you have mine.

SH

P.S. I would appreciate it very much if you would not refer to this letter when I return home tonight. In fact, please don't ever mention it. I mean it. I can't speak about it.

That night John was confronted with a difficult problem. He had to find a place where he could safely keep the most precious inanimate possession he had ever owned.

Two years later John and William were standing in the surgery in front of the screen, intensely studying John's last chest x-rays. The swelling of the mediastinal lymph nodes was definitely subsiding. Finally they looked at each other and smiled. It looked very much like it was in remission.

"You know the saying all that glitters is not gold, John, don't you?" William asked calmly. "Well, in your case I'd say it definitely is."

John just smiled for an answer. William had no idea how right he was. His last two years had not just been glittering, they had been golden.

Today the violin was creating lovely tunes. Sherlock was just composing, passing the time. Standing at the window in his most ratty dressing gown. He put down the instrument and crooked his head. Wondering. He lifted the violin to his chin again. He probably should apply rosin to the bow, it would produce a smoother sound. He was actually looking forward to this evening. John hadn't heard this one before.

Three years later John was impatiently fumbling with his keys outside 221B. When he finally managed to unlock the door, he headed through the hallway and up the seventeen steps to their flat, taking two at a time. Flinging the door open, he rushed in, bursting with news, only to be greeted by a highly irritated consulting detective with a short and rather harsh: "Shut up, John!"

"I haven't ..." John never finished the sentence.

"Not now, please!"

Sherlock was bent over his microscope, the sleeves of his insanely expensive silk shirt rolled up unceremoniously, all crumpled fabric, his hair falling black and wild and curly and ruffled and unkempt into his face. His bright eyes blazing with the energy of a thousand unsolved puzzles. To John he looked glorious.

"Sherlock, I've..."

"And I said. Not. Now."

The only consulting detective in the world looked up from his whatever-it-was-it-was-clearly-rotting-sample under the microscope and threw a glance at the shorter man. With an annoyed huff he turned round, narrowed his eyes and directed the impact of his undivided concentration at his friend.

Deducing.

A quick smirk curled the corners of his mouth. He fixed his eyes on John's with an almost amused expression, lifting a single eyebrow; John expected to that look to drive him crazy one day.

Then he turned round, staring into the microscope again. Without a warning he started to rattle out his monologue, never expecting any input from John's side.

"You've just returned from work. You've been tetchy and jumpy the last three days. In contrast, you were almost bursting with joy as you dashed in. You needed to tell me immediately that your annual Tine test has produced a positive result at last, which clearly isn't related to tuberculosis in your case, but which means that your sarcoidosis has officially and finally gone into complete remission, on which I want to congratulate you very much, indeed!

"You should know by now that I deeply loathe repeating myself, it's tedious. But as it turns out you expect me to acknowledge an already confirmed miracle again, which I will most definitely not do out loud tonight, because it is all so obvious! That is, unless you provide me with a plausible explanation to the question of why the retina of a blue-eyed female Caucasian takes thirteen seconds longer to dissolve after pickling it in accumulator acid, compared to the retina of a brown-eyed male Caucasian, when I say that this clearly should have turned out vice versa."

John stood and... well, nothing, just stood there.

"Perhaps the woman had worn contacts for several years, or your male sample wasn't that fresh," he offered calmly, vanishing towards the kitchen.

He couldn't see Sherlock looking after him with a rapt smile on his face.

A cup of tea would be nice now. John's first impulse had been disappointment and irritation. He stood at the sink, head bent, brow furrowed. Eventually, his features smoothed. A broad smile slowly plastered itself over his face. Something inside his brain had just clicked into place.

This had been better than a Sherlock beside himself with joy. This was as normal a Sherlock as humanly possible.

'Arrogant git!' John thought affectionately.

They could never return to where they had started more than six years ago. But this was their new life. And it was finally back to normal.

It was all fine.

The End

This work is dedicated to the one who knows.

If you ever browse the internet for fan fiction and stumble across my story, you should know that it is thought as a belated apology.