A/N: The final Part. Short, but hopefully sweet.

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V. Epilogue

Indeed, in the months that followed afterward, Watson found that there was not very much in the way of those incidents that he could remember.

He could not, for instance, remember the way each incident of theirs invariably began. Could not remember the way, each night after supper, he and Holmes would sit in chairs by the sitting room fire, he with his newspaper or book or neither and Holmes with his pipe or violin or both. Could not remember the way, at precisely a quarter to twelve, Holmes would get up – nonchalantly, as if he had no other intention – and say, "Well, I'd best be off then, old boy," pour himself some Scotch whiskey, then amble to bed.

And John Watson did not, furthermore, remember how he would sit in his chair after Holmes had gone on, and turn the page of his newspaper or book or neither as if truly unmindful of how Holmes had brushed along his shoulder, just barely, on his walk to the door. Did not remember how his eyes would dart to the clock – ten to twelve, and then five, and then four, and then three – and how Mrs Hudson would come up at precisely twelve midnight to announce that she would be going to bed.

Could not remember his own consistent reply – "Yes, of course, Mrs Hudson. Have a good night."

"You're staying up, Dr Watson?"

"Only just for a while."

Could not remember how he'd wait another ten minutes more before getting up out of the sitting room chair, leaving whatever he'd been pretending to read for the last three or four hours on the nearest low table, moving then to the door. Standing there, for a moment. The walk to Holmes' room.

Could not remember the way Holmes didn't spare him a glance as he let him in, wordless, when he knocked on the door.

And Watson knew, certainly, that he did not remember all the things that sometimes (only sometimes) came after – the buttons undoing, belts snapping, braces unclasping themselves; Sherlock Holmes plucking out his tie-pin with an amused look on his face, then a smile, then mouth opening to say something pointless and Watson kissing him – hard – just to convince him to stop. Then the waistcoat catching against his own shoulders and Holmes giving him a look before helping him out. No, John Watson did not remember anything at all; not Holmes' fingers, gripping his arms before sliding their way up, then into his hair, then down again to rest on his hips, then back up with an impatient sound as Watson struggled with his cravat ("Really, Watson, you are quite dismally hopeless"). The taste of tobacco in Sherlock Holmes' mouth. Then the warm tumble, although sometimes it became a rough shove, to the bed – the frame screeching and slamming the wall – Holmes saying, "We really must do something about that, you know"; and Watson saying, "No, you are not stealing my bed again, Holmes." The sound of light rain from the open window. The sound of a carriage, perhaps, or a horse. The sound of a gasp, muffled soft against skin, a low groan – perhaps the sound of a name, although always just that little too low to be sure.

The sound of the clock chiming one, two, three; Sherlock Holmes fast asleep and John Watson still not, and John Watson easing himself out of bed at three in the morning to make his way silently back to his room.

John Watson did not remember those nights at all.

But what John Watson most definitely could not remember were those treasured occasions when, come one o'clock, or come two, both he and Holmes remained steadfastly full-dressed, Holmes on the bed staring up at the ceiling and he sitting close-at-hand in a chair. Holmes rambling comfortably about something else or other – the ligaments present in the human upper limbs, or the voice of some new and up-and-coming soprano – Watson saying nothing, but sitting there smiling a little, waiting patiently for the moment when he ran out of words. Sometimes it took minutes; other times, it took hours. But when it came, as it inevitably did come, the last tail of a word dissolving to nil, they just let the full quiet envelope them, not disturbing that precious silence between them that both knew meant much more than anything else.

And John Watson would watch as Sherlock Holmes fell asleep, slowly and quietly, those eyes sliding closed; and then, only then, would he close his eyes also, and the next morning he'd wake to Mrs Hudson's hard knock.

"With Mr Holmes again, doctor?"

"Discussing the case at Wycombe."

And Sherlock Holmes would turn in his bed with a mumble and complain about how it was still much too early, and Mrs Hudson could take her crumpets with her to Hell, and Watson would sit there with his neck in a cramp and his back very sore and a half-smile on his mouth and –

"My dear Watson, your newspaper is up-side down."

Watson blinked himself out of his own reflections, looking up to meet the eyes of Sherlock Holmes across the breakfast table in the sitting room.

"You've been staring at it for almost an hour, old boy. What on earth is it that you've been thinking about?"

Watson smiled. "I don't remember," he said.

Holmes looked curious, but didn't ask for anything more. His pipe had gone out and he fumbled around for the matches, busy in lighting it up once again. Watson watched him, a warm feel in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with Mrs Hudson's fresh tea.

No, Holmes, he thought laughingly to himself; I don't remember. I don't remember any of it, at all.

0-0-0

The End.

A/N: Yes, that is the actual End. The final End. No more extensions, my friends; because I feel finally that I have rounded their relationship off, and this is where I'll leave it.

Now, just before I'm bombarded by people demanding explanation for why there was no explicit smut – I had, actually, intended for smut. I have the scene written in all its four-and-a-half pages of glory, sitting there on my laptop computer. BUT, as I said in the A/N for Part II, I realised as soon as it was written that it didn't have any place in the story; had I plonked it in, at Part IV or even Part V, it would have felt a bit tacky and out of place. In my opinion, the main focus of the Holmes/Watson relationship is not sex; it is what that sex represents, i.e. trust, security, intimacy, etc. I hope I got that across in this final Epilogue.

Anyway. Let me know what you thought about this – not just this Epilogue, but overall, what you thought about the whole fic. Let me know, let me know! I'd appreciate it extremely.

And I have already written another little Holmes/Watson One-Shot titled Quindecim Secundus (A new case, a stolen waistcoat, and Sherlock Holmes... John Watson never even stood a chance. Holmes/Watson, One-Shot.) - please please please check it out, it needs reviews! And I have decided to continue churning out Holmes/Watson fics while the inspiration lasts, so please put me on Author Alert as well. ;)

Please, please don't forget to review! And thank-you for all the phenomenal support!