Not Afraid

Epilogue - High Functioning Idiot

"Boring!" Sherlock shouted, smacking his hands together in irritation, making the client sitting in the chair jump with fright. "Of course he's cheating on you!"

The young woman leaped up from the chair and after shooting both men a tragic look along with some mumbled words about love and misunderstanding, scurried from the flat in a flood of tears. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, cutting John a glance. John shook his head in mild exasperation. Despite everything, matters of the heart still didn't belong in the client's chair, according to Sherlock. According to John, they belonged in bed. John laid his notebook and pen aside, eyeing Sherlock. A month had passed since Sherlock had been discharged from the hospital and John had written up a condensed version of the case for his blog. It had already got over ten thousand hits in the last couple of days, making John feel very smug indeed. He'd called it "The Stationmasters Revenge", much to Sherlock's disgust.

"Do you really have to name them?" he'd demanded around a mouthful of blueberry muffin, curling his bottom lip. John had looked up from his laptop and grinned; they'd certainly had this conversation before!

"People like the names. I've told you that," he'd said, rolling his eyes good naturedly.

"But really," Sherlock had scoffed. "The Stationmasters Revenge?"

"It works," John had hit submit and then closed his laptop lid with a snap. "It always does."

"I'm still trying to figure out how," Sherlock had shaken his head and John had simply laughed. Now, John tapped the tips of his fingers together, still staring at Sherlock who was staring back, squinting a little.

"What?" Sherlock said eventually, blinking and breaking eye contact briefly.

"Hmm? Nothing," John shook his head and then stood up, stretching. "Any more clients today?"

"None that I'm aware of," Sherlock replied, also standing and looking over to where Rosie was sleeping in her mound of blankets by the fire with Redbeard at her feet and toy Smaug tucked under her arm.

"Good," John told him. "We can start redecorating then."

"What?" Sherlock looked at John blankly. Sighing, John began to explain that they were repainting his old room because a couple of weeks ago, Harry had found her own little flat just down the road and had promised to find a job and stay away from the booze. So, John had decided that Rosie would need her own room soon and that they ought to make his old room a little brighter for their daughter. Sherlock suddenly recalled the conversation and nodded his affirmation.

"What colours?" he asked.

"Well, Rosie seemed to like the red when we looked at the colour schemes the other day," John said, pointing to a small pile of paint tins by the door. "They're almost the exact same colour as that Smaug toy you got her."

Sherlock looked very pleased indeed and brushed his shirt lapels in satisfaction. Then, with a delicate little twirl of his feet, he made his way over to the paint tins and picked one up, reading the name.