Here we are again. Finally, with the last part, the epilogue.

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And now, enjoy.

Not Meant to Be

Epilogue

John could not help it - he simply had to scan Sherlock once more. "I'm still not sure…," he began.

"I am," Sherlock cut him off, staring out of the window. "It's a kidnapping, John, and I need to see the scene by myself. I know I can save the victim." He paused for a moment and then turned his head towards John. "You were the one who told me about caring."

John pursed his lips. "Yes, but not at the expense of my best friend's…" He hesitated for a moment - "life" did seem a bit over-dramatic. "…health," he ended lamely.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, almost mockingly, but did not say anything. Did not even make a sarcastic comment.

"It's only been…," John began again.

To his surprise, Sherlock did not turn away again. "I know," he said quietly.

I know.

Closing his eyes for a moment, John nodded. "OK."

Their first case. Well, not their first case, not at all, but the first crime scene for Sherlock since what had happened. The first time he would face the entire team of Scotland Yard, the first time he would come into contact with dead bodies - one man had been killed, according to Greg -, the first time he would be outside, deducing, examining, in person, would not be seated on the sofa, provided with pictures and information by John via laptop.

The first time.

"As soon as you feel dizzy, or worse, or…," John began, trailing off. "Promise you'll tell me. Anything."

Snorting, Sherlock returned to glancing out of the window. "Believe me, I do not feel the particular need to… faint in front of Anderson."

John stared at the back of his head for a moment. "Right," he then said, unclenching his fists.

"Although…," Sherlock began. "Maybe it would be worth the attempt. Seeing their faces…"

Seeing their faces… Fainting. "Oh no, you don't," John told him, gritting his teeth. "Absolutely not. Don't even think about that."

Sherlock's lips quirked into a crooked smile.

Fainting. Sherlock had spit out the word, making it sound like an insult, like an impudence. It wasn't. In fact, there was a very real possibility that it might - might - happen. It still did, occasionally, when Sherlock got up too fast, or when his exhaustion became too much. Five times since he had been returned to 221B - at least that was as many times as John had witnessed, the thought of what might have happened the one time he had come to visit Sherlock and had found his chin turning a rather greenish shade still making him very uneasy -, plus two seizures, one during his cold, the second one while he had been at home on his own and John had only been called by Mrs Hudson who had found Sherlock thrashing, nothing ever severe enough for John to ignore Sherlock's vehement protests and send him to hospital. He had rushed to Baker Street in a cab, of course, immediately, as soon as Mrs Hudson had called him, and Sherlock had in fact been, after two glasses of juice and a bit of medication, better.

"Sherlock," John began once more, trying to get rid of the images and fumbling for his shoulder bag. "You only recovered from your cold…"

"I know, John," Sherlock repeated. "But I'll be fine."

Pursing his lips for a third time, John nodded stiffly.

Unlike normally, Sherlock did not basically jump out of the cab as soon as they had reached their destination, eager to see corpses and bodies and evidence, but rather hesitated, slowly pulling his gloves over his fingers.

"John," he said quietly.

John's head shot up at once. "What? What's wrong?"

Sherlock's forehead creased. "Do you really need that bag?" he wanted to know. "You look ridiculous with it."

Grabbing it and pulling the strap over his head, John nodded. "I don't care."

But still, Sherlock did not move. "John," he began again, even more quietly. "I think… Will you…"

Will you… John did not need to hear the end of the question to know that he would, no matter what. He would stay with Sherlock, would make sure he was fine, would…

"Yes," he choked out, nodding vehemently. "Yes."

Sherlock smiled for a second. "Thank you," he replied, staring into John's eyes before climbing out of the cab and leaving it to John to pay the driver.

Some things didn't change.

"Where are we?" Sherlock wanted to know as soon as he and John approached Lestrade.

John caught Lestrade's questioning glance and nodded.

"Sherlock, hey," their friend greeted them. "Great of you to come. Er… as soon as you feel…"

John noticed how Sherlock's jaw tensed. "Yes, thank you, Lestrade, moving on to the scene. Where are we?"

Greg gave John another look and then explained: "Over there, at the back door of this building. There's the corpse, and the kidnapping took place there. Shall I…"

"No, thank you," Sherlock replied, turning up his coat collar and walking into the direction Lestrade had pointed at. "John, coming?"

"He'll be fine," John whispered to Greg as he followed Sherlock.

Of course they ran into Anderson before they had even seen the body.

Anderson, of all people, suddenly meeting face to face with Sherlock, the tension in the air tangible, palpable.

John stepped closer.

For a second, nobody said anything, nobody moved, neither Anderson, staring at Sherlock, nor Sherlock, his gaze fixated at a point somewhere behind Anderson, nor John, holding his breath.

Then the second passed, and Anderson cleared his throat.

"It's… er… over there," he finally said, his features set, deliberately avoiding to look at Sherlock's face. "And… don't contaminate my crime scene."

A curt nod, that was all John could see from Sherlock before his best friend walked on, leaving Anderson behind.

John let out the breath. "Sher…," he began, but Sherlock simply marched on, increasing the distance between himself and Anderson.

Very quickly, hurriedly, John caught up with his friend until he was right by his side, almost jogging to keep up with Sherlock's wide strides.

"That…," he began, only to be interrupted by Sherlock: "Went well," he said, his voice low. "Anderson did not make a complete idiot out of himself for once, and…"

Sherlock didn't finish his sentence, even slowed down a bit.

In that very moment, it were John's knees that became wobbly, unsteady beneath him, when Sherlock turned his head a bit, to look at him, when John caught the glance his best friend directed at him.

Because he wondered, seriously wondered, if anybody else was able to see the cracks in Sherlock's supposedly impenetrable mask, too, if anybody else was able to see that all his arrogance, his coldness, his smugness was just pretence, that he was insecure, nervous, that…

"Yes," he croaked past the lump in his throat. He had known, always, of course, but it had never been so obvious to him before as in this moment. Obvious. Unguided, maybe, as was the look in Sherlock's eyes, meant for him. For him. And all of this made him giddy, and wobbly, and breathless. "Yes," he repeated, sucking in air. "Yes, it did."

Sherlock smiled.

By the time they had reached the scene where the body was lying, nearly deserted, with only a few policemen in the distance, Lestrade had caught up with them, had in fact caught hold of John's sleeve and dragged him a tiny bit to the side while Sherlock was already busy scanning his surroundings.

"What did Anderson say?" Greg wanted to know, frowning.

John only shrugged his shoulders, his attention fixed on Sherlock. "It's fine, Greg, really. Only told us where to go."

"Oh." Greg's frown disappeared within seconds, relief flooding his features. "You sure it's alright?" he then mumbled. "If it's too early, you should…"

Making a tiny step to where Sherlock was standing and slowly approaching the corpse, John shook his head. "He says it's fine. He wanted to see it, and I…" Focusing on Greg for a moment, he went on: "It's OK. Though… don't expect too much yet, yeah?"

"Yeah," Greg echoed. "Sure."

He fell silent, John's gaze still lingering on Sherlock. On Sherlock who probably knew what - or rather whom - they were talking about.

"Did he…," Greg cleared his throat. "Did he ever remember anything? About… you know, who… who attacked him? Anything?"

For a moment, John's voice failed him. "No," he finally managed, breathlessly. No, Sherlock hadn't remembered, never, not even the few days prior to that night. And John had never told Greg or anyone else what had truly happened, for some reason not even he himself could name exactly. Maybe it was the dread of having to relive it again, the fear of how Greg's view on Sherlock would change from then on, of…

And then he thought back to a phone call he had received a few weeks ago, a call from Mycroft Holmes himself, telling him that "the individuals responsible for my brother's… condition have been taken care of, be assured".

John had not asked any further, had simply taken in the information, only a pale triumph in contrast to what Sherlock had been - and still was going - through.

Remembering that he still owed Greg an answer, he shook his head.

"Listen, if you need anything, if Sherlock needs anything…," Greg began once more.

John nodded. "I know," he answered. "Army doctor, remember?" He pointed at the shoulder bag Sherlock had complained about, at the bag which contained medication, something to drink, more medication, even atropine, bandages, plasters, a thermal blanket… anything John might find useful if Sherlock happened to… No. "I brought my own supplies."

Greg broke into a grin. "Yeah," he replied.

"Listen, Greg…," John called after him as he had already made a few steps away. "There's one thing… one thing I need you to promise me."

Lestrade's grin faded so quickly that John almost regretted his words.

"Never let him go anywhere on his own," he croaked, his eyes darting over to Sherlock once more, Sherlock who was eyeing John and Lestrade himself. "If you call him, call me, too. Don't let him take cases alone, alright? Just… not yet."

Greg nodded.

John was not the only one watching Sherlock who was on his knees next to the male body, lying on the floor.

Lestrade, too, hovering close, his entire posture displaying his concern.

The team of Scotland Yard, of course, men and women who had known Sherlock for years, who had never bothered to look beneath the surface, to find out who he really was, and who were only interested in some kind of scandal, in witnessing the man who had outdone them so many times fail.

Once more, it made John want to growl.

He knew Sherlock was aware that everybody was watching, their curiosity barely disguised, barely hidden, and he also knew that still, after all, it would do Sherlock no good if John intervened now.

So he just stood there, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his shoulders as stiff as Sherlock's, his teeth gritted.

And watched.

Could pinpoint, in fact, all the little details he noticed, maybe Greg, too, could pinpoint the differences in Sherlock's posture, in the way he was kneeling, the way his eyes were constantly searching for John.

He was crouching down, yes, his coat spread behind him as so many times before, studying the corpse, and yet… his shoulders were drawn, tense, his head was bent down a tiny bit deeper than usual, and when he got up, he did so more slowly, less hastily, less abruptly, taking two or three deep breaths before addressing Lestrade.

"The charlady found him? As well as the kidnapper's letter?" he wanted to know, removing the sterile gloves.

"Yeah," Greg confirmed. "Called us as soon as she'd found him. Was taken to hospital. Shock, y'know."

Sherlock's eyes flickered to John for a moment before he nodded. "He knew his murderer, your kidnapper," he then said, closing his eyes for a moment.

"How d'you…," Greg began, his face confused, before Sherlock continued: "Look at him. No signs of struggle, and he apparently wasn't choked from behind, so… he saw his attacker, and nonetheless didn't try to defend himself, not at first, at least. Then, his trousers…"

John stopped listening, concentrated on scrutinising Sherlock instead. Pallid, yes, as always these days, the pale light of the sun illuminating the lines on his face. And deducing. Deducing what nobody else had thought about before, according to Lestrade's surprised and at the same time delighted face.

Deducing.

Sherlock's voice echoed in John's head, from weeks ago, while still in hospital, insecure, scared: "What 'bout… crime scenes?"

"Definitely," John mumbled now, feeling a smile spread on his face. Definitely, yes.

All in all, it took two hours for Sherlock to finish, as well as a considerable amount of strength.

Walking around, crouching down, getting up again, walking somewhere else…

And yet, it had not erased that particular glow in his eyes disappear, caused by the thrill of a case and the joy of deduction…

When he had fully examined the room where the victim had been kidnapped, had absorbed details, had then taken a final look at the corpse and the concrete around it and then announced that he was done, John and Lestrade made him sit down first in the back of a police car, John urging him to drink half a bottle of juice and eat at least a few biscuits while Greg had positioned himself next to the car, shielding them from too curious eyes.

Shielding them successfully, until Sally Donavan approached the car, slowly, but steadily, and finally addressed Lestrade, peeking over his shoulder, inside.

John clenched his teeth and tried to rise to his full height, his hands clenching into fists, while Sherlock simply rested his head back and closed his eyes.

"Sir," she began, staring at John, but talking to Greg. "Everything… alright? Is he… Is Sherlock alright?"

John froze, not stepping aside.

"It's just…," Donavan went on while Greg turned around for a second and gave John another questioning look.

John could not help but echo the movement.

Sherlock's jaw was tense, his breaths carefully measured, but he nodded.

John moved aside, and Sherlock got up, slowly, but with a bit of colour returned to his cheeks.

Three people stared at him.

"I'm fine," he said, standing next to John.

Donavan's face portrayed an odd mixture of emotions John could not exactly pinpoint, embarrassment, maybe, insecurity…

"It's… er… OK," she stammered.

For a moment, John wondered if it would be unreasonable to step in front of Sherlock, usher him back into the car and close the door.

"I'm… we're glad you're… OK," Donavan ended lamely, clearing her throat.

John held his breath.

"Thank… you," was what Sherlock settled on, croakily, hoarsely.

And Donavan nodded, smiled awkwardly and then retreated.

"You OK?" John wanted to know, abruptly, resting his right hand on Sherlock's upper arm.

Sherlock's eyes flickered back into focus, his chest deflated visibly as he let out a large breath. "Me… what? Yes, fine."

John simply nodded, not taking his eyes from his best friend, and after a few moments, Sherlock added, slowly: "Why was she… was it… was it… good?"

"Yes," John confirmed, smiling. "It was… very good."

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock gave a curt nod.

"They read about it in the papers," Lestrade remarked, turning towards them. "Believe it or not, they all wanted to know how you were doing."

Sherlock nodded once more, stiffly, and John finally dared to relax a bit.

"I need to go to the lab," Sherlock announced the very next moment, addressing both John and Greg, but only ever looking at John.

The lab. Bart's.

John's initial impulse was to shout no, to take Sherlock home, to check him over, to put him to bed, to rest, to recover… but he swallowed his response and nodded instead. "OK."

Next to him, Lestrade almost exploded. "OK? John, don't you think that maybe…"

Smiling, John shook his head. "No, I don't," he replied.

"Bart's, then?" Sherlock asked.

"Bart's," John echoed, his smile deepening.

Bart's.

Molly was there, of course, as well as all the other things John had come to know so well.

And Sherlock.

John simply sat by and watched.

He didn't interfere, did not suggest anything, did not attempt to prevent Sherlock from doing anything, for the time being, simply cataloguising the way he blinked rather frequently, he tried to a hide a yawn, he shook his head curtly as if to force himself to focus again.

John let him be.

Because this, he figured, was what Sherlock needed.

Work, his work, distraction, distraction from his still frail health, something to occupy himself with.

Needed the work he loved so much.

"Sherlock?" he finally ventured, skipping through Greg's notes about the abducted woman.

"Hm," his friend replied, fixed on his microscope.

John hesitated. "Nothing," he mumbled, suddenly wondering what he had intended to say. Sherlock's name, maybe.

This prompted Sherlock to even look up, but not at him. "John," he said, his eyes fixed on the wall behind John. "I believe it is… time to thank you once more, for everything you have ever done for me and," his speech came so fast that John had difficulty to understand every single word of it, "for everything you are still doing and for how true you have always been standing to me, no matter what, as well as for your guidance in situations I may happen to find the least appropriate reaction to, I do, however, feel the need to tell you, nonetheless, that you are in no way obliged to still support me in…"

He trailed off when John started chuckling. "You're my best friend," John simply settled on, not adding anything else. Because there wasn't anything else that needed to be said.

After a moment of confusion, Sherlock's lips curved into a smile. "I see," he said. "How's Mary?"

John grin deepened at the abrupt change of topic. Because he knew, he knew what it meant. It was Sherlock's way of showing that he cared. "Fine, she's doing really fine…," he answered, remembering her growing belly. "And she'll insist on you holding true to your promise, you know."

Sherlock huffed and turned back to his microscope.

The notes forgotten, John started pacing. "About what Sally said…," he began. "It came as a surprise, I guess… but in the end, they're all…"

Sherlock's near-orgasmic "oh!" cut him off.

"Of course, of course…," Sherlock mumbled, adjusting one knob at his microscope. "How could I not have seen that?"

John closed his mouth, never finishing his sentence, but simply cherished the feeling of his heart fluttering in his chest as he observed Sherlock as he was supposed to be.

Two hours later, the case was almost cracked, according to Sherlock.

"Let's go," he announced, picking up his coat and his scarf, stifling a yawn at the same time. "We need to tell Lestrade that the murderer's hiding place probably is…"

Following his best friend, John grabbed his elbow. "Slowly, Sherlock," he reminded him. "Don't you think we can leave that to Greg?"

Sherlock blinked a few times. "Oh," he muttered, and as if on cue started swaying a tiny bit. "You mean… I'm tired?" he enquired.

John chuckled. "Looks like it, don't you think?"

"Mh," Sherlock only made, clumsily trying to fasten his scarf around his neck.

"I'll call Greg," John decided. "You sit down here, and then we'll go home and get you something to eat."

"I'm not a child," Sherlock protested, but flopped down on the chair obediently.

John chuckled while dialling. "I know that," he mumbled. "And now tell me what to tell Greg."

Molly had been so kind to provide them with a few bites to eat and something to drink, but nonetheless John was relieved when they had finally hailed a cab and were on their way back to Baker Street.

It was fascinating, and maybe even scaring, he mused while watching Sherlock's eyes slowly flutter close and his head sag forward, how utterly and completely his best friend was able to block out his tiredness and exhaustion, to focus on something with every fibre of his being, until the case was solved, and then crash almost immediately. While deducing and examining and figuring out things John still did not understand, he had appeared… close to perfectly alert and aware, and now, he nodded off in the backseat of a cab.

Instead of trying to wake him, John unbuckled his seatbelt and slid over to Sherlock.

"You're an idiot," he mumbled while carefully taking hold of Sherlock's lolling head and resting it on his shoulder. "But I don't know what I'd do without you."

Sherlock muttered something unintelligible, sagging against John. "…solve… J'hn…," was all John could make out, but it was enough to make him smile.

Steadying Sherlock in his position, he bent forward a tiny bit, addressing the cabbie. "I'm sorry, but could you not take us to Baker Street?"

Whether he liked it or not, John decided, Sherlock would have to stand another night on John and Mary's sofa, and he himself would have to call Mrs Hudson as soon as they were home, to tell her that everything was perfectly alright, but that Sherlock would stay with John and Mary this night, that there was no need for her to worry - which she would, not matter what he told her -, that Lestrade was working on solving the case, that they were all fine.

Fine.

Letting out a large breath, John shook his head in disbelief, carefully, aware of Sherlock's cheek resting on his shoulder. Case. They - Sherlock - had assissted Lestrade on a case, had provided a probably crucial lead in finding the victim. Case. In person.

There were still many things that felt wrong, that were not back yet to how they were meant to be, headaches, nausea, dizziness, but… but it was better than anything John had dared to hope for at some point.

Definitely.

And obviously.

The End

Thank you for reading.

There are so many things I want to say right now (the first one being 'thank you' all over again).

I had never expected this story - to which the inspiration came from a dead hedgehog, having been run over, I once saw on my way to work - to be so long, and so appreciated. It's been quite a while, quite a journey, and still you've been interested and faithful and encouraging all the time, and this was really, really great, did mean a lot to me.

I hope that you, in the end, liked what I was able to present you with.

Thank you again.

Sincerely, Gwen