Thank you for all your feedback once more.

Here it is, the final part, the epilogue.

Enjoy!

Dying Like That Is Stupid

12

Epilogue

Greg had taken care of all the formalities, thankfully - explaining why there was a dead man on that hill, how they had ended up there, who they were, who the dead man was.

He had also done most of the talking, to doctors and nurses, chatting rather merrily, while John had spent most of his time next to Sherlock, trying to convince his still worrying mind of the fact that Sherlock was alive and going to be fine.

And he had also informed John about what one of the mountain rescuers had told him: how lucky they had been to able to shovel away the snow with their bare hands, how lucky they had been that the avalanche had already been flattening out when it had hit Sherlock - or otherwise they wouldn't have stood a chance against both snow and time. The thought alone had made John shudder once more.

John had of course called Mary, telling her something about 'unexpected difficulties' and 'delays' at first, and ending up telling her the truth because, of course, she had seen through his lies.

"I'll fly to Scotland myself if I find out you're still lying," she had threatened, but finally, John had been able to calm her, assuring her that he was fine, and that Sherlock was fine, too.

John was utterly relieved when, two days later, nurses had wheeled another bed into his hospital room, Sherlock's bed, who had finally been released from ICU, stable, indeed, suffering from a touch of pneumonia and being treated for it already.

John's initial relief had been replaced by worry at first because Sherlock didn't seem to do much else but sleeping and coughing occasionally, almost buried beneath the duvet and an additional blanket, and now, five days later, with mild annoyance because as soon as he was awake, the antibiotics having kicked in, his vitals quite impressive for what he had gone through, Sherlock started complaining, about boredom, about being cold, about John's snivelling (because John had, in fact, caught a cold and a urinary tract infection from sitting in the snow for so long), about the food he was forced to eat, about the IV line that was still in place, about his bandaged fingers that prevented him from typing away on his laptop Greg had brought, very considerately.

Mild annoyance because all his complaining was far better than his unsettling drowsiness of the first few days, than his... apathy and apparent weakness.

Oh, and John still couldn't help but chuckle when he remembered the moment Sherlock had, awake for more than five minutes and in a rather clever mood, finally found out about the urine catheter and about how his urine outputs were still measured carefully. The shouting match that had eveloped - Sherlock, very hoarsely, against the stout nurse John had got to know earlier on - hadn't done anything to calm John down, in fact, only made him giggle harder. In the end, Sherlock had, exhaustedly, explained that he could not tolerate such measures because he was fine, and in return the nurse had told him that the catheter was to be removed as soon as she was convinced he was fine, and that she could very well have him sedated or moved to a single room.

Sherlock had shut up after that, surprisingly enough, had at first seemed to be sulking - and had nodded off only minutes later.

"I don't see why we still have to stay here," Sherlock told John now, still hoarsely, after the urine catheter had in fact been removed and after another nurse, young and shy and friendly, had brought them lunch.

John grinned in between taking two bites and continued chewing rather comfortably. Sherlock only picked at his meal.

"I don't have to," John answered finally after he had swallowed and loaded his fork once more. In fact, he had been offered the possibility of discharge yesterday - and had found himself, almost to his own surpirse, declining. There was no way he and Greg would travel back to London - after their murderer had, well, been eliminated - without Sherlock, and since Sherlock was not to be discharged yet and John would never let him leave hospital against medical advice, not this time, he had figured that he could as well stay here, sharing a double room with Sherlock and attempting to lessen his boredom instead of spending the days at the hospital anyway and the nights alone in a hotel room, wondering if Sherlock was alright. "It's you they want to keep for a bit longer," he added, ready to shovel more food into his mouth.

Sherlock only huffed, almost petulantly.

"Eat your noodles," John reminded him, chewing once more, "or you'll never get out of here."

"I'm actually looking forward to London again," Lestrade told them rather moodily one evening, in the cafeteria, about to leave. "This constant cold and the snow..." He sniffed. "I'm not made for that, I think."

London. Back to London. John sighed, taking another sip from his coffee. Tomorrow, in fact, tomorrow would be the day. "Yeah," he replied, sneezing violently. "That is if Mary doesn't kill me."

"How could she," Sherlock muttered, pulling the hospital dressing gown - his own was at home, at 221B - closer around his body. "I assume she will rather take to sobbing and snogging and..."

"Sherlock!" Greg interrupted him. "And you still haven't told Mrs Hudson anything?" he then wanted to know.

John shook his head, rubbing his itching left palm. Frostbite, he had found out, was rather unpleasant to heal. And it took time, quite a lot of time. "Probably'd give her a heart attack," he replied.

"She'd move upstairs just to keep an eye on me," Sherlock interjected, yawning.

"Doesn't sound like a bad idea," John answered with a weak grin.

Greg giggled while Sherlock simply shot him a condescending look. "Really, John," he mumbled, concentrating on his own cup of coffee.

"I've left your clothes in your room," Greg informed them.

"Yeah, thanks, Greg." John smiled. He didn't even remember how often he had thanked Greg in the past few days, for so many things - for being fast enough, for taking care of everything, for not returning to London immediately, for providing them with new mobiles and clothes and even their laptops, for organising everything, including the flight back.

John noticed how Lestrade already opened his mouth to say something before another voice cut him off: "Thank you, Le... Greg," Sherlock added. "For... everything."

It was almost comical for John to watch Greg, a grown man, a police officer, almost blush at these words. Whereas Sherlock did thank John occasionally, it still proved to be a rare occurrence with somebody else. And this time, it was sincere, very much so, John could tell. As could Greg, apparently.

"Er...," he began.

"Oh, please," Sherlock interrupted, his lips slowly quivering into a smile, almost insecure. "Although I do know that your intellect is, compared to mine, inferior, of course, there is no need to further prove this fact..."

"Sherlock."

His best friend didn't even turn to face John, rather raised one eyebrow.

"Stop it," John explained. "You were saying 'thank you' a minute ago, don't ruin it."

Sherlock kept his mouth shut, and Greg's face coloured even more.

"I'll... I'd better go," he finally said, getting to his feet. "See you tomorrow."

"See you," John replied whereas Sherlock remained silent once more.

John took another sip of his coffee. He never drank coffee in the evenings, but since... it, he rather preferred anything that was hot and steamy instead of cool juice. "That was... appropriate," he said calmly. "We owe him our lives, after all."

A brief smile flickered over Sherlock's face. "I know," he replied, unusually humble for a moment.

Studying his friend for a moment, taking in his pale complexion, he realised that this was Sherlock's way of appreciating what Lestrade had done. Calmly, composedly, not bothering with unnecessary words - but absolutely meaning what he was saying. Slowly, he felt his lips quirk into a crooked smile. Yes, he definitely knew why Sherlock was his best friend.

Unusually humble for a short moment. "Although, when you think about it more closely," he interrupted John's train of thought, "hypothermia is a condition rather simple to reverse, and victims of hypothermia are not considered dead until…"

"Shut up, Sherlock!" John cut him off, harshly, narrowing his eyes and seriously contemplating the urge to nudge Sherlock in the ribs. He didn't, in the end, well aware that his entire chest was probably still sore and hurting due to CPR. "I'm a doctor, remember?" he added. "And believe me, I really don't need any more experiences with hypothermia. Really not. And it really didn't have to be any closer."

For a few heartbeats, none of them said anything.

"John," Sherlock eventually addressed him quietly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"

"Yeah," John croaked, trying to shove the images of Sherlock in the snow, on the stretcher that had suddenly appeared in his mind again away. "I know."

Because he did. Because he could see that the prospect of them dying there, in the cold, in the snow, had frightened Sherlock, unsettled him. Not to mention John's own horror.

"Maybe we should let Lestrade pay the bill for the hotel," Sherlock remarked only seconds later, purposefully flippant. "After all, he was the one who lived there most of the time."

John almost spit out the rest of his coffee. "That would be terribly unfair," he choked, licking his burned lips. "But then... can't we talk Mycroft into paying for it?"

"Probably," Sherlock mumbled and yawned.

John joined in, not able to resist the urge to, and sneezed promptly afterwards. "Bed?" he suggested.

Sherlock sighed theatrically and huddled even more neatly into his borrowed dressing gown. "Bed," he agreed.

It took John a while until he was able to find sleep in this night. He didn't even try to, maybe, just was lying in his bed, propped up on one elbow, listening to Sherlock's quiet breathing and his occasional coughing, watching him sleep, curled up on his side, once more buried beneath the blanket, without any doubt still utterly cold.

How lucky they had been. How very, very lucky.

The nightmares he woke to in the nights always showed him Sherlock, his chest being frozen due to the cold, truly frozen, a condition which made all attempts of resuscitation useless, or Sherlock, with limbs being amputated or organs failing, terminally. Nightmares, only. Just dreams.

How very, very lucky.

John let out a breath and rested his head back on the pillow. Back to London, tomorrow, with Sherlock being discharged (still a bit early, in John's opinion, but then, he assumed, London and Mrs Hudson's motherly care would only do wonders for Sherlock's health).

Back to London. Out of the cold. For real, this time.

Maybe, just maybe, he would be able to forget the images of Sherlock in the snow, of Sherlock inside of the helicopter now. Maybe.

His last thought before he finally fell asleep was that he would have to thank Sherlock, too.

For holding on.

For not dying.

Because dying like that would have been stupid.

The End

Thank you for reading.

That's it, then. Back on their way to London - and to Mrs Hudson and Mary.

I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I did - while writing it - and you'll be able nonetheless to enjoy snow and winter!