Epilogue: The Final Test

A/N Huge thanks to feralandfree whose prompt inspired this story, and to anagogia for keeping me going with it. Oodles of love to those who have R&Red - you are wonderful people!

It had been a brutal Winter. As London temperatures plummeted to a record low, and the city fell to its knees, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had fought a quiet battle of his own. The battle had been against stomach cancer, and the fight had looked to be all but over at times. There were days when he truly believed that the effects of the chemotherapy would be the end of him. On other occasions he thought that his wife's vicious barrister would finish him off. But now it seemed that the darkness was finally receding. Commuters rushed by, locked into their tunnel vision. The shop windows prematurely displayed the latest in swimwear and summer fashions. The days were slowly lengthening as the crocuses tentatively poked their noses above ground, ready to bloom with the fresh splendour of an English spring. There was already talk of temperatures reaching a record high that year.

Lestrade stretched lazily upon the park bench, taking a few moments to contemplate the heavens. He didn't exactly believe that there was a God up there watching over us mere mortals. Then given the events of the past year it was difficult not to suspect the guiding hand of some kind of divine providence. The divorce had been settled, and joint custody of the children agreed. To add to that glorious news, his consultant had just given him the best possible update with regards to his illness. The chemotherapy had done its job. There was no sign of any malignant cells, meaning that the initial tumour had been excised in time - the cancer had not spread. His digestive system was coping well. Life without a stomach would, of course, never be quite what one would call normal. Then he had never much liked normal anyway. His intestine was doing a good job of partially compensating for the missing organ. He might be stuck on a special diet for the rest of his days, but he would survive.

He strolled back towards the office at a leisurely pace, wanting to fully appreciate the moment. This time there had been no confusion or procrastination. No foreboding envelope to open. Rather he went in for a long chat with a doctor he had come to know and trust. All of his questions had been answered and his mind set at rest. A certain consulting detective had not been given the opportunity to interfere.

As the DI approached the Yard the feeling of calm and well-being that had enveloped him from the moment he left the doctor's office wavered ever-so-slightly. The butterflies in his not-tummy increased as one of the Commissioner's personal secretaries almost collided with him, then turned and ran in the opposite direction. And – hang on a minute – was that Anthea disappearing around the corner? He reached his office and eased the door open. He was not entirely surprised to find a curly haired detective seated comfortably behind his desk, looking for all the world as if he owned the place.

'Short version', said Sherlock, suppressing a grin. 'I found out about your results a little, um, early, and decided that a bit of a bash was in order. Your nearest and dearest are waiting in the cafeteria. I believe the children are even planning a quick recital.' This last word appeared to stick in his throat, as a look of contempt, or even fear, flashed across his face. 'But it seems that I've been rather hoisted by my own petard, as I now require your undivided attention for at least the next three hours and forty five minutes.'

Lestrade didn't know whether to laugh or cry as he took in the spectacle of the earnest detective, who had launched into a frenzied monologue about a recent spate of assaults in the Wimbledon area, and his elaborate scheme to apprehend the offender later that afternoon. Instead he leaned forward and enfolded the younger man in an enormous bear hug. 'Where would I be without you, Sherlock Holmes.'

THE END