Disclaimer: I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the makers of BBC Sherlock.

Rating: T (darker issues, language)

Author's Note: Here's the epilogue—don't worry, NO SPOILERS (even though I gave into my impatience and excitement and watched S03X1—so going be posting some fic based off of it at some point). At the moment, though, I wanted to get this to all you lovely people ::grins::-it's gone through some major revisions over the course of its life, and I'm still not sure if this is 100 percent what I was trying to express, but it certainly came close! Please enjoy!

Summary: Sherlock's first arson case after the Hiatus results in an injured John and some hard truths for Sergeant Sally Donovan…(Intense Friendshipfic. Post-Reichenbach Reunion.)

"Speech"

Personal Thoughts/Memories (Italics)

.:Intermezzo: Inferno:.

Epilogue: À Deux

(NSY Headquarters, Two Hours Later)

"Sally, what the hell were you thinking?"

Holmes and Doctor John had long since left for home. With his usual aplomb, but far less dramatics than Sally (and Lestrade, truthfully) had been expecting, Holmes had outlined the conclusion of the case: their perpetrator had apparently been a dissatisfied employee of the firm that had just blown up, on the fast track to a pink slip. He'd decided that if he could not retain his job, then no one would. So he had stockpiled dynamite, and blown the place sky high.

She had not stuck around to find out more than that—not the why, not the how, shaken to her core by the exchange that had taken only moments to culminate between herself and Sherlock Holmes. Favoring discretion and professionalism over confrontation, her DI had not sought her out until now.

"Did it ever even occur to you that Sherlock is not the same man you remember?"

Yes, it had. In the most painfully transparent way possible. He had deliberately stepped into a blow aimed for his partner, after all.

It just had not occurred to her that three years ago he would have done the same thing. Had, in fact.

"He jumped off a bloody, thrice-damned building to save John, to save me!"

And his landlady, she remembered.

"Do you honestly think a sociopath would have done all of those things? A man without a heart?"

No, heroes and angels did things like that—not ordinary men, and certainly not sociopaths (self-diagnosed though they may be).

It had only taken Sally three years and any number of months to realize it

"Then you hauled off and slapped him, because you couldn't see the difference? Jesus Christ, no wonder John refused to apologize!"

Unlike what her DI thought, she had not aimed her slap at Holmes, but at Doctor John—not because of what he'd told Lestrade over half an hour ago (God, had it really taken so little time?). Nor because of their somewhat-more-than-mediocre tiff, but because she had invaded their little private bubble and heard far more than she ever expected to, from both of them.

"Of all the absurd reasons…!" Lestrade had worked himself into a fine temper by now, its anger moderated by the deeply-seated concern she heard brimming just below the surface.

Not for her. Oh, no. She had lost that privilege the moment she had decided to, as Doctor John had put it, hunt a man whose only crime against humanity was his inability to understand it.

"You do realize John may never forgive you for this? For that matter, I may never forgive you for this…!"

She had been wrong. Oh, God, she had been so wrong.

IOIOIOIOIOI

(221B Baker Street, Two Hours Later)

The tiptoeing of violin strings filled the air of 221B's parlor, disrupting the hush of silence that had filled it upon its occupants' return.

It reached John's ears where he stood now in the kitchen, wrestling one-handed with the tea kettle, and tumbled warmly in and between their channels, interweaving with a massive burst of memory:

"I know that song, don't I?" he called into the room beyond, over the kettle's whistle. "It's the same one you played when…"

His throat closed up almost immediately, remembered heat and tightness welling up in his chest. It hadn't lessened any since the day he'd come home early from the A & E to find Sherlock standing in front of their parlor's windows, launching himself again and again through the same sequence of notes; if anything, it had only grown. A memory of what he had thought lost forever proving itself no longer a memory.

It had not become easier with repetition, and John hoped it never would. He did not ever want to lose this again.

He barely heard Sherlock's assent over a piercing burst of steam from the tea kettle.

Swallowing hard, he continued, raising his voice slightly to be heard, "Who wrote it?"

"I did."

"Did you?" John mused, managing to pour two steaming cups of tea with minimal damage to either himself or Mrs. Hudson's china.

"You sound surprised."

John jumped, nearly slamming the kettle back on its hob. "S-Sherlock!" he sputtered, whipping around as best he could with a wounded limb. (When had the consulting detective moved?)

Where he stood in the doorway, violin and bow in one hand, the taller man raised an eyebrow. "Are you all right?" asked softly.

Struggling to wrestle his pounding heart back into submission, John swallowed again and waved his good hand at the detective, "Fine, fine. Just warn me next time, yeah? I do have a broken wrist, you know."

"I doubt I'd be able to forget," Sherlock murmured, slipping into the kitchen and deftly removing his cup from John's grip before the doctor could even try to lift it.

John scowled, "I'm not incapacitated, you know, just injured."

An amused snort was all the answer he received as Sherlock added two lumps of sugar to his tea, "They're right, then."

At the distracted "hmm" from John (who was pouring creamer into his own), Sherlock smirked, hitching his violin underneath his arm, "Doctors really do make the worst patients."

By the time John snapped his head up with an outraged, "Sherlock!" the consulting detective had already disappeared out the door.

IOIOIOIOIOI

When he emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later, John found his best friend seated on their couch, delicately balancing his violin on his knee and sipping tea around what was almost certainly a small grin.

Glowering at him, John moved to take a seat in his armchair, but a slight tinkle of china drew him up short. A glance at Sherlock revealed he had placed his teacup back on the coffee table.

"Warsaw."

John startled, and nearly dropped the teacup he'd been holding, intending to set it down next to Sherlock's. "What?" he managed, half-gasping.

Sherlock brought his instrument back up to his chin and briefly bowed the strings, wincing as he shifted his jaw to better accommodate it. "Earlier. You asked me where I had learned triage. It was in Warsaw…"

Half-frowning, more than a little intrigued by the tale, but determined to assess how badly Sherlock's cheek would bruise, John cautiously deposited his teacup on the coffee table, and sat down beside his flat mate on the sofa.

When his fingertips gently brushed the detective's purpling cheek, Sherlock flinched.

"I'm sorry," John whispered, swiftly withdrawing his hand. Or trying to, at least.

After the initial wince, Sherlock lightly grabbed his fingers and pressed the older man's palm firmly to his cheek, inclining his head into his doctor's careful touch, "Not your fault."

John smiled humorlessly, "I can't help but think a very great deal of this is my fault, Sherlock. If I hadn't upset her-"

"—She would have slapped me just the same. I do believe I have rather turned her world on end."

Sighing and carefully removing his hand, John shook his head. "She's not the only one," muttered.

Intrigued, the detective raised an eyebrow. With a small grin, the doctor leaned his left knee and most of his left side into Sherlock, conscious of his broken wrist. "Tell me about Warsaw," he requested instead, voice soft.

Not really able to conceal the smile forming around his pout, Sherlock began. Audience was the frailty of genius, after all.

Finale à Deux