Previous parts: The Eye of the Beholder; Life Imitates Art, Perchance to Dream and To Which Fate Binds Us.

Author's note: Right, so this is the last installment of my first series. Let me call it Book One, which consists of five parts, this one being the final one. But fear not, there will be a Book Two ;-) . I just needed this last part to give some closure to the Moriarty issue to be able to focus on new villains and new cases :)

John woke up feeling miserable. Opening one eye, he could see Sherlock sleeping next to him and he felt the sudden urge to poke him, just so he wouldn't have to be miserable on his own. With a sigh, he closed his eye again. And then it dawned on him.

James Moriarty was dead. Sherlock had killed him. He had shot him when he had thought John lost. The monstrosity of his action only now became clear to him. If John had died, Sherlock would have spent the rest of his life trying to hunt Moriarty down and they would have been playing cat and mouse until one of them would finally succeed and kill the other. But he had killed the one person who would have been his only distraction and at the same time the focus of his hatred and pain.

John stumbled out of bed and barely made it into the bathroom before he threw up. For a few seconds he felt pure panic burning through him, his stomach heaving, no air in his lungs, just blinding pain. Then he felt two warm hands on his back and he immediately felt safe again.

"John?"

He blinked the tears away and spat out and finally filled his lungs with air again. "I'm sorry." His voice sounded rough and it hurt to talk.

Sherlock sighed behind him. "Nonsense. The amount of whisky you drank perfectly explains your poor stomach. I'm fairly sure that there is still some alcohol in your blood. "

John turned around, sitting up against the toilet, looking at Sherlock who was crouching in front of him. "And you?" he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "No rest-alcohol?"

Sherlock avoided his eyes and John regretted chiding him continuously for his drug abuse. But he was sure that Sherlock had drunk quite a bit more than he had. Either way, the bottle had been empty before the sun had set. "I'm sorry," John wanted to reach out and touch his face but remembered that maybe he wouldn't appreciate that gesture after he had clung to the toilet bowl and dropped his hand again. For a moment they remained in their positions, Sherlock close to John, looking at the wall behind the sink and John studying Sherlock's face.

Just when he wanted to apologise again, Sherlock shook his head and shot up, turning on the cold water tap on the sink, dipping his hands into the water and crouching down again, gently touching John's face with his cold hands. Then he seemed to remember what John had done the night before and flushed the toilet, closed the lid and grabbed John's hand to pull him up so he could sit down. He watched as John leaned over the sink and filled his hands with water, swallowing down a few hands full and splashing his face.

"Stop copying me," Sherlock remarked with a small smile when John closed the tap and leaned back, the water from his face dripping on his t-shirt. For the first time, he became aware that he was actually wearing pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt.

John exhaled and then stood up, pulling Sherlock against him. "It wasn't just the whisky," he murmured, closing his eyes.

"Want to go back to bed?"

"What time is it?"

"Early," Sherlock smiled and John noted in the back of his head that he had expected Sherlock to dish out a precise time, exact to the second and just how much he had changed.

"Let me just brush my teeth," he leaned back, looking up at Sherlock's face. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"Good."

Sherlock prepared John's toothbrush and his own, which made John grin.

"Stop copying me," he said around his toothbrush, making Sherlock playfully bump against his shoulder, which did funny things to John's stomach.

When they were done, John pulled off his t-shirt and dropped it next to the shower. "Why are we dressed?" he asked, trying to remember the point at which they had decided that being naked wasn't the perfect state to be in.

"Must have felt cold," Sherlock remarked with a shrug. So he had been properly drunk as well. John couldn't hide his smile, realising he felt much better than he had when he had woken up. "Come on." He took Sherlock's hand and pulled him back into the bedroom. Once there, he tugged at Sherlock's t-shirt until he pulled it off. He didn't care for their pyjama bottoms either, but for now he just wanted to cuddle and not get all hot and bothered at four o'clock in the morning.

Without having to say a word, Sherlock pulled John close to him as soon as they were under the covers. For a while they just remained quiet, listening to each other's breathing, but eventually Sherlock lifted a hand and pushed it into John's hair. "Tell me." That was all he said and John's heart clenched because Sherlock knew him so well and watched him so closely, and still didn't make him feel uncomfortable about it.

"When I woke up ..." he started, wondering what Sherlock would make of his words. He exhaled and started again. "I just realised that you didn't know whether I was dead or alive." Sherlock's fingers tightened in his hair, but only for a second before they relaxed again. His thumb was tracing the shell of his ear and John couldn't help but smile.

"You killed him because you thought I was dead," John continued after a while, frowning.

"I had one shot, John. I had to take it, whether you were dead or not."

"Did you believe I was dead?" John looked at Sherlock, whose eyes were closed in the dark. He didn't know whether he did that to remember better or to ward off the memory.

"Chances that you had died were quite low, considering the bullet proof vest. But I couldn't be sure."

"Did you believethat I was dead, Sherlock?" John repeated the question, remembering now how Sherlock had fallen apart in his arms when he had been ill with fever a few days ago. Sherlock's fingers stopped moving and John could feel that he tried to force his breathing to stay calm. He didn't quite succeed.

"I'm sorry," John whispered, kissing his chin, feeling it tremble.

Sherlock exhaled loudly, frowning, his eyes still closed. John could feel him searching for words, but there were none. So he kissed him and made sure that Sherlock wouldn't think he'd need to say anything. Eventually the kiss grew less intense and less sad and they both settled more comfortably in between the sheets and when John opened his eyes again after a while, it was day and Sherlock was gone.

He yawned and stretched, amazed that he felt fairly well, all things considered. For a moment he thought of taking a shower, but then he just stayed in bed, stretching and thinking about the meaning of yesterday's events.

They were free now. Free of the constant shadow following them wherever they went. Free of the man who had almost managed to make John feel afraid to leave the house; John, who had gone on patrol in Afghanistan, knowing of snipers in empty houses, knowing of children who might have a bomb strapped to their bodies, of friends who turned out to be enemies. He had always been aware of the invisible danger, and yet he had trusted his instincts then. He hadn't been able to trust his instincts with Moriarty.

"John, stop thinking so hard," Sherlock piped up from somewhere out of his sight.

"Why are you on the floor?"

"I am distracted."

John rolled over until he could peek over the end of the bed and down to where Sherlock lay, wearing the bathrobe which had ridden up a bit so that Sherlock was showing way too much leg for anybody's good. He swallowed audibly. "What?"

"I am distracted."

"Oh, I heard you, I just don't …"

"Understand, I know." Sherlock sighed, causing one half of the robe to slide off a bit to show his chest.

"Stop it. All of it. And get up here." John moved back and waited for Sherlock to return to bed, but there was no sound which suggested that the man currently lying flat on his back in the most seducing manner would move even a single toe. John sighed. His toes were probably moving, but that wasn't important now. The sigh didn't help either, but he refused to give in so easily. So he sighed again, louder this time, being rather proud of how dramatic it sounded.

Still nothing from below. He was just about to crawl back to the edge when his brain finally caught up with what Sherlock had said. He was distracted. Sherlock was never distracted. Sherlock just zoomed out and did his thing. The only things that distracted Sherlock were people being stupid, people being unreasonably noisy and … John. "Oh," he breathed, feeling his cheeks redden. And then he felt a lot of blood flowing elsewhere when he imagined Sherlock's smile at his realisation. He could check, but that would feel like cheating.

So instead John stretched again, making a little noise in the back of his throat, hoping to distract Sherlock some more. Then he grinned, both because it was ridiculous and because it was fun, and pushed off his pyjama bottoms. He kicked them off the bed so that Sherlock could see what he had done. Then he took a pillow, fluffed it up, tucked it under his head and settled down. For a few moments, he just listened, but Sherlock seemed to be waiting just as he was. John figured that it would only be fair to start, not knowing how long Sherlock had actually lain on the floor in order to keep himself from waking John up. He was touched by so much self-restraint from Sherlock's side.

John thought about licking his hand to make sure that he could move smoothly, and to make sure that Sherlock would hear; but then he remembered that they had lube now, so he moved over to the other side and reached for Sherlock's bag into which he had half-heartedly thrown the condoms and lube to make sure that it wasn't the first thing the maids saw when they came in to clean the room.

John found the lube and moved back into the centre of the bed, smiling as he realised that the pillow smelled of Sherlock. With a content hum he flipped open the tube and let some of the clear liquid run out onto his palm. He had never done this with lube, and he felt a shiver of anticipation run through him. For a second he considered pushing the lube off the bed so Sherlock could use some as well, but then he decided that if Sherlock wanted it, he would have to come and get it.

He was already fully hard when he touched himself, sucking in his breath through his teeth. John wasn't sure whether he really heard or whether he imagined a small desperate sound coming from below. In the end, it didn't matter. Within seconds he had found a rhythm, found how easily his hand slid over his erection, how good a final little twist felt before he moved back down.

For a while he did just that, eyes closed, slowly stroking himself, enjoying how easy his previously injured hand now moved around him; and then his focus shifted. John became more aroused as he began to imagine that it was Sherlock's hand around him; and that he was stroking Sherlock just like this. The groan which escaped him unbidden sounded lewd and uncontrolled and just then he heard Sherlock move.

John could hear that he stroked faster than him, and his breathing grew louder and laboured and John wondered how far gone Sherlock had already been when he had woken up. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to make Sherlock talk about it but just the thought made him stroke faster and tighten his grip a little.

"Sher …" he bit his lip to keep himself from groaning Sherlock's name. Making it this obvious was not going to be how this would go down. A whimper came from below and he could hear Sherlock's heels scraping along the carpet. The image of Sherlock arching up into his own hand made John grab of the pillow, holding on for dear life. He wanted to tell him to stop. He wanted to force Sherlock to lie still, to not move until he told him to. This thought only made it worse.

John's hand moved faster without any conscious decision. He realised he was moaning quietly with every thrust into his hand. Again he imagined Sherlock's long fingers wrapped around him; his thumb pressing down just under his head, and then he could feel Sherlock's lips closing around him.

He automatically grasped Sherlock's hand which suddenly appeared next to him. Their fingers intertwined as he bucked up once more to the thought of Sherlock swallowing him down and then he was undone.

For a few moments he just focused on filling his lungs with air again. John's fingers hurt, he was still grasping Sherlock's hand that hard, and Sherlock was still holding on, still squeezing harder every now and then. Aftershocks, John thought just as one ran through him and made him groan. He loved how long it took Sherlock to come down from orgasm; as if his body needed to memorise every little detail of the chemical process through which it had just gone and he wouldn't let him off with just calming down again; no, his body would shake and quiver and Sherlock's eyes would close involuntarily as he slowly regained control.

John wiped his hand on the sheets, being aware of but indifferent to the fact that whoever cleaned their room would know pretty well what had been happening on the bed; an off it. Then he squeezed Sherlock's extended hand once before pulling away, stretching his hand and forming a first just to make sure that blood flow was restored and then he finally allowed himself to look back down.

Sherlock was lying on his back, the bathrobe completely open now, revealing his softening cock lying against his stomach, cum glistening on his white skin. His right hand rested on his thigh, fingers wet. For a few moments John just looked at him, unable to process what had just happened; that Sherlock had yet again managed to surprise him by manipulating him into doing something which he would never ask for. Then Sherlock opened his eyes and John felt breathless once more. His pupils were blown so wide that his eyes looked almost black. His features were relaxed and his lips parted just a fraction. He looked so beautiful that John almost felt in pain. The urge to touch him was overpowering, but he also wanted to keep looking at him, wondering how any man could be like Sherlock, and how it had taken him a year to fully appreciate him. He couldn't help but smile and Sherlock smiled back, and John faintly wondered whether Sherlock found it frightening or liberating to be unable to control certain reflexes; because smiling back at John had certainly become a reflex.

"Do you want to come up now?" John asked, pointing at the bed. Sherlock shook his head and grabbed his arm, pulling hard. It didn't take much to topple John off the bed. With a squeal that made Sherlock laugh John fell and landed half on top of him. Just as he wanted to tell Sherlock exactly what he thought of him in that moment, Sherlock grabbed his face and kissed him deeply, and John decided that insults could wait as he kissed Sherlock back, clumsily climbing on top of him.

"Morning," Sherlock said when they stopped kissing.

John grinned and planted a wet noisy kiss on his cheek. "Morning."