A/N: First of all thank you for all of your lovely reviews and putting me on author alert. It means so much to me.

I can't believe this epilogue took me so long to write, but here it is. I hope you enjoy it.

"Tell me again, why am I here?"

John Watson looked at Nick and couldn't help but grin. The journalist was covered in paint splashs and even had a white stripe on his cheek. But John was certain he sported a similar look. They were painting John's flat – the one he had rented after Sherlock's 'death' – as part of an agreement between John and his landlord. In return the man would terminate John's contract prematurely.

"Nick, I'm pretty sure I asked you to help me with the painting."

"Yes, you did." The journalist admitted. "Let me rephrase my question: Why is your current flatmate not helping?"

"You want Sherlock to help with the paint?" The horror in John's voice was only half faked. He still remembered very vividly one week with Sherlock experimenting on paint and blood and the effects of tinting on blood patterns. "Besides, as soon as he stops harassing Greg, he will be bringing food."

"You don't trust him with paint, but you trust him with food?" Nick looked at him incredulously. John just shrugged. "He knows every take-away, and half of them owe him something. So we usually get extras or meals for free."

Nick kept on staring for another minute, but then obviously decided to let the matter drop and picked up his paint brush. They worked in silence for a while until the journalist asked the question John had actually expected from the beginning of their painting session.

"So, how are the things between you two?"

But, although he expected the question, John didn't know how to answer that. In a way, it was hard to explain because it was the same as 'before': Sherlock was still infuriating, impossible, demanding, mad, brilliant, amazing … and alive.

So he settled for the answer that covered everything in his opinion: "It's all fine."

Nick's face was a mirror of utter disbelief. "I hope you realise that I need more. The man jumps from a damn rooftop for you. You refuse to speak to him and now everything is 'all fine'?"

"Are you asking as a friend or as a journalist?" John saw the flash of hurt and immediately regretted his remark. But moving back to Baker Street also meant the return of the journalist troops attempting to get his side of the story.

"No, I'm just a friend using his journalist skills to ask about a friend."

"Look, I'm sorry; the media people in the last days were a bit crazy. But Sherlock and I, we're fine, we really are." John almost saw the question marks over his friend's head. "Okay, the first days were a bit weird, but then we clicked back together. So, all is indeed fine."

The first three days had been indeed downright weird. They both had tiptoed around each other, being overly polite and considerate, offering each other tea, biscuits and whatnot. John had caught himself several times mentally shaking his head and even Sherlock looked a bit lost at the situation, but they both had been unable to stop it. Too aware what they nearly had lost, too aware how close they had come to the edge.

It took a wild chase after a thief through London's alleys, leaving them breathing heavily against a filthy wall and grinning madly at each other. They had celebrated the successful ending of this case at Angelo's with the obligatory candle. John caught himself looking at those grey eyes as if he saw them for the first time and couldn't help himself as he blurted out aloud: "God, you're alive." And without his usual scolding for stating something so obvious, Sherlock just confirmed. "Yes, I am."

As if only that had to be said again, the tiptoeing stopped. Sherlock started several experiments which involved some explosives and heavy fumes, while John continued to nag him about his eating habits and not helping with the chores. There was only one thing that changed. They both checked regularly the other's whereabouts. And they both made sure to text the other current locations. Even now, he had already received three texts simply stating 'Still at Scotland Yard. SH' and 'On my way. SH'

He even found himself entering Sherlock's bedroom during the nights, just to see the other man sleeping. He knew that the Detective was aware of John's nightly visits, but since the Doctor had woken up several nights with Sherlock staring down at him, everything was alright. Neither of them mentioned this in the mornings.

And John wouldn't mention it to Nick. He didn't believe that the journalist would judge him for this, but this vulnerability was so raw and something so private between him and Sherlock. So he just settled a little helplessly for "I think we are both still a bit shaken, always looking where the other is."

For a moment, it looked as if Nick wanted to ask for more, but then he simply turned to the job at hand. John was grateful. Grateful that he didn't need to explain this, grateful that they had managed to stay friends throughout the years. Grateful for the support during the last months.

"I never thanked you. For … what you did … Believing me … Believing in him. Clearing his name."

"He did. He thanked me." Nick obviously noticed John's surprise and chuckled. "Oh yes, he informed me that it was good I did all the work for him so he hadn't to do the tedious deed himself."

"He didn't." John's remark was met by a huge grin. "He absolutely did." – "That it so typical", complained John before he couldn't fight his own grin anymore.

"So, he informs you that clearing his name is tedious. And you want me to let him paint. What do you imagine would he think about painting?"

"I think it's pretty dull", a familiar baritone announced. When John turned around to greet his friend, he found the smile in Sherlock's voice mirrored in his face.

"That's why I didn't ask you to help", John answered while doing the now obligatory check whether Sherlock was alright. Their eyes met for a moment, but the moment was disrupted by Nick.

"Oh good, the great detective himself, I hope you remembered the food, I'm starving here, I'm not used to such hard work."

"I can see that. You have gotten more paint on you than on the wall", Sherlock observed.

"John looks the same", the journalist defended himself.

"I'm a doctor, not a bloody painter", John protested.

"No, don't start with the Star Trek quotes! I still have nightmares about Kandahar." Hearing Nick's exclamation John couldn't help but start laughing. Although a small part of John's brain wondered how Nick could possibly have nightmares about this evening in Kandahar, since it only involved lots of booze and, yes, lots of Star Trek quotes, even some role playing if remembered correctly. A larger part was amused by the memory, the questions in Sherlock's eyes and the detective's complete disregard for pop culture. But the biggest part of him was just happy to be here, to be actually able to laugh about Afghanistan and more importantly to laugh with Sherlock. When he finally was able to speak again, he managed "You may like Spock. He also came back from the dead", which got him another questioning look and another fit of giggles from Nick.

Sherlock watched the two other men with a something akin to amusement and fondness, a far cry from his usual superior demeanour. John and Nick were just calming down when a text alert turned Sherlock's attention to his mobile. Instantly his eyes lit up.

"John, a text from Dimmock, he found two bodies in an abandoned warehouse. Apparently one was stabbed and the other was hung. Let's go."

It didn't even occur to John to refuse the request. He grabbed his jacket and followed the taller man when he heard Nick's protest "Hey, I'm not finishing this alone." John was about to apologise when he heard Sherlock's voice who was already halfway down the stairs: "You don't need to. The landlord has an affair with Mrs. Miller from 3b, he will be happy to keep his secret and to do the paint job himself."

"How could he know that?" Nick inquired. John simply shrugged; he had stopped wondering about such things a long time ago. "No idea." He took a bunch of keys out of his pocket. "I know I'm awfully rude, but can you just put the lids back on the paint and lock after you?" He could see a resigned smile on his friend's face – it was not the first time since he had moved back to Baker Street that John was leaving unexpectedly early – and hear the muttered "Yes, I see, you run after him to look at dead bodies. It's indeed all fine." John simply smiled. He couldn't agree more.