Chapter Text
EPILOGUE
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"Can you sit up now?"
As the sun climbed higher in the morning sky, John listened and processed the long story, recalling much of what Sherlock had narrated; except, the last six hours were a blank. Sherlock's questions prompted him to edge up onto his elbows and test for dizziness. "Yeah. Better." He rotated his head for a panoramic view of the park, and grunted, no longer from vertigo, but from an afterthought. "So you just picked me up and left the scene?"
"'Fraid so?"
"Why?"
"I was drugged, at least mildly, and somewhat uninhibited."
"That much I get. What was your motivation for removing me from the scene?"
Sherlock smiled with his eyes as he looked far into the distance, and cocked his head. The birdsong of a small robin, alight on the branch overhead, seemed to distract him. When its cheery call ended and the bird flew off, the detective cleared his throat. "Motivation is a bit hazy. I suspect the effect of the drug increased my mistrust of how well the Met and medical crew would handle things. Their reputation for failure became exaggerated in my head, and the noise was deafening, making it hard for me to think of better options." A soft sigh preceded his next remark. "I suppose one can summarize it this way. You're my responsibility, John. Didn't feel anyone could take better care of you."
John broke into laughter, first as a slow roll of chuckles, until it built to a hilarious roar that shook his raised shoulders and filled his eyes with tears of mirth. Joining in, Sherlock's melodious laughter harmonized with his partner's, producing pulses of contagious merriment that turned heads of several others in the park and made people within earshot smile just from the sounds of it.
"A case of the blind leading the blind," John giggled softly. "Since when is sleeping rough in a park taking better care of someone?"
"I admit, in the light of day," squinting with amusement, Sherlock turned his eyes with their unique colored irises toward his friend, "it is hardly defensible." Springing lightly to his feet, he ruffled the black mop of curls, and deeply inhaled the scented air. "Perhaps, we should follow up on the case. I would think Lestrade has some questions for us and maybe even a few answers. I suspect we'll get more information about the long-term uses for their biometric data. They must have been anticipating a more widespread implementation of the technology to target random rather than specific victims." Sherlock stretched his arms and loosen his shoulders.
"It's been seven hours." Offering a hand up to his partner, the baritone voice was gently persuasive. "Do you think you can stand now?"
Fingers touched tentatively at first, as their hands slid together in a solid clasp. Even when John had been pulled to his feet, Sherlock did not release the tight grip. Instead, he brought his other hand to support his friend's elbow, ensuring the doctor's stability. Only when it became apparent John could stand on his own did the man who spent a lifetime practicing "Do Not Touch—Me!" finally let go.
"Ahem! All good." John smiled weakly as he caught a strange look in the luminous eyes.
Immediately, their glances cut away. John looked down and brushed off his jacket and trousers, whilst Sherlock leaned over to retrieve his scarf that had pillowed John's head.
The glint of metal caught John's attention. "Hallo. Sherlock, what's that stuck in your collar?
"Evidence."
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