Hey you guys! Thank you for the kind reviews so far! I have no way to express how much they mean to me. I did want to mention I was greatly inspired by Placebo when writing this and if you are looking for a song campanion with this story, I would recommend "Begin the End" off their most recent album. Once again, thank you, thank you, thank you. Enjoy :)

Sherlock wrapped his coat tight around him as he walked away from the music and laughter of the party. The pain in his chest continued to intensify; that ache he'd been feeling since the day started.

"This is it." He kept thinking to himself. "This is the end and it never even began."

He pulled up his sleeve revealing the three nicotine patches there and ripped them off, throwing them to the ground. He had wore them that day, hoping they would help to numb him a little, but they had been no use. If anything, they had served as a constant reminder of the reason he needed them. A reminder that after today there was no more hope, no more hope for a happy ending, at least not for him.

Sherlock fumbled in his coat pocket for a cigarette hoping that it would at least give him some relief, even though he knew it wouldn't. He needed something much stronger to numb this ache; these...feelings. The addict in him awoke and he quickened his pace, needing to get home, hoping his kit had enough to sooth him. But inside he knew nothing would ever be enough to kill this pain unless it killed him first.

For the first time since before Sherlock had met him (that cursed, wonderful man that had given him these feelings), that thought seemed acceptable, even realistic. Sure, John would miss him, at first. But he had a new wife and a baby on the way and he couldn't grieve for long. Besides, he had moved on before and he would again. John could still be happy...

"Sherlock!"

He was woken out of his thoughts to see John, that dreaded man, running toward him. Sherlock half wanted to turn and run away, but he couldn't, not from him.

"Hello." Sherlock said softly, as John arrived in front of him, catching his breath.

"Don't play dumb with me!" John said. "You're trying to leave my-your best friend- wedding early? Even for you Sherlock, that is-"

"Insensitive?" Sherlock interrupted. "Cruel? Unforgivable?"

John shook his head, clearly frustrated.

"I was going to say ridiculous." He snapped looking up at him. "And disappointing."

Sherlock's expressionless face twitched for a second. He hated the idea of disappointing John. His opinion was the only one that mattered to him. And the fact that John was looking at him now, confusion and frustration plastered on his face, was too much to bare. He turned on his heels and began to walk away. But John was not done.

"Sherlock! Stop this!"

He heard John's footsteps following behind him, his voice now filled with anger.

"Sherlock! What the bloody hell is wrong with you?"

With those words John grabbed Sherlock's coat with force and flipped him around to see his former flatmate's now tearstained face. John stepped back in shock.

"You, John." Sherlock whispered, unable to look him in the eye. "It's always you."

The anger on John's face began to fade. He couldn't be mad at Sherlock, not when he looked like this.

"Nothing is going to change Sherlock." John said. "We are still best mates and I'll visit all the time-"

"No!" Sherlock said suddenly, looking up, his eyes piercing John's. "Don't lie to me. Do you really think I-Sherlock Holmes-can't see the deceit written on your face?"

It was John's turn to avoid Sherlock's gaze as he stared at his feet. He heard Sherlock speak, his voice softer this time.

"Everything is going to change John."

John looked up again. Sherlock looked almost fearful, his eyes still filled with tears he was refusing to let run. He was beginning to understand.

"I thought you were okay with this." John said, the usual confidence in his voice gone. "I thought you were happy for me."

"I am, John." Sherlock responded. "I really am. It's just..."

John finished the thought before Sherlock's brain could even find it.

"But you're not." He said, his voice barely understandable over the noise from the party.

Sherlock nodded and to his frustration a tear fell. He wiped it away, turning his face away from John's, not wanting to see the look on his face when he turned and walked away, back to his wife, back to his child, leaving Sherlock alone. But instead John grabbed his face, turning it to his and pressed his lips against Sherlock's.

The kiss wasn't long, but just long enough. Long enough to express all the anger and frustration at those lost moments, all those stolen glances. All those never to be realized hugs, hand holding and kisses. All those times that had never happened and would never happen. All those feelings of passion, friendship and love of the past, present and future in one kiss. It was long enough to begin everything and then end it as John's lips released him.

He looked up at Sherlock, his hands still cupping his cheeks, tears now filling his eyes too.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Always have and always will."

He moved his hands to Sherlock's shoulders and grasped them tightly as he stared into his eyes, willing him to understand.

"Everything may change, but that will never change, okay?"

Sherlock searched John's face looking for signs of deceit. That all this was said out of pity or confusion. But all he found was love. Pure, unadulterated love. He ran his fingers against John's cheek and across those lips he had just kissed and would never kiss again and nodded.

John smiled weakly and took a step back, placing in his hands in his pockets.

"So I would try and convince you to come back to the party, but you wouldn't would you?"

Sherlock shook his head. His voice seemed to fail him.

"Alright." John said. "I guess this is goodnight then."

Sherlock nodded, still unable to speak.

"Well then..." John said, forcing a smile. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock forced himself to meet John's eyes, those perfect eyes.

"Goodnight John." He said hoarsely.

And with that, they both turned around heading in opposite directions. Sherlock reached into his pocket for the cigarette he had forgotten, lighting it and breathing in that deep, wonderful smoke. That ache in his chest was still there and he knew he would never be rid of it. But it seemed to be lessened and more tolerable. Maybe even comforting. He absentmindedly licked his lips, tasting the last bit of John, his John, remaining there. He smiled and closed his eyes fileing away every second of that memory into his mind palace. And it was that memory that he would call to in his most desperate hours, when all hope and reason seemed lost. It was that memory that gave him the strength to carry on. That kiss and that promise John had made him.

He loved him.
And always would.