Il y a longtemps que je t'aime

by eeelastic9

For fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic's AU fic contest. Based on W. Somerset Maugham's novel, The Painted Veil, Sherlock finds himself married to Doctor John Watson, who volunteers to treat the cholera epidemic in 1920's China. Major spoilers for the book and movie, but not really any for Sherlock. TRIGGER WARNINGS: Major Character Death, Drug Use, Angst, Smut. See A/N for more.

Il y a longtemps que je t'aime - jamais je ne t'oublierai

(I've loved you for so long; I'll never forget you)

Word Count: 4,989 | Rating: M (see warnings)

Warnings/Tags: Angst, Major Character Death, Smut, AU

Pairings: John/Sherlock, Sherlock/Moriarty, Moriarty/Moran

Author's Note: The Painted Veil was written by W. Somerset Maugham. I have used some of his lines of dialog, and a few of his turns of phrase. I also, borrowed some dialog from BBC Sherlock. The title is from the song À la claire fontaine, from The Painted Veil movie soundtrack. All rights and ownership belong to more talented individuals than me.

This piece was written for fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic's AU fanfic contest.

xXx

Sherlock pulled back from the shorter man beneath him with a loud smack.

"Shit."

Pupils blown wide, heart racing, Sherlock stared at the rattling doorknob. Thankfully, they had locked the door.

"I'm sure it's just the housekeeper, Sherlock."

"He's supposed to be at work."

"Calm down. John's not going to find us," he soothed.

The footsteps faded away. They were safe. For now.

xXx

Mrs Violet Holmes was a determined woman. Marrying off her two sons occupied nearly all her time. Sherlock was the beauty of the two; Mycroft was a bit too stout and his nose too long.

Mrs Holmes had higher hopes for Sherlock.

She worked hard to get him invited to dances, and it wasn't long before Sherlock had half a dozen men in love with him.

Sherlock enjoyed flirting. It amused him, playing his suitors off one another. He put his deductive skills to work, and even conducted experiments on his unsuspecting dance partners. But when they proposed—and they all did—he always declined. Mrs Holmes began to fret that Sherlock's beauty would fade and no one would want him.

Despite his looks, Mycroft had married well. Though he treated Anthea as more an assistant than wife, their relationship seemed to work.

So at the age of 25, Sherlock panicked, and accepted the hand of Doctor John H. Watson.

xXx

Although Sherlock had deleted it, he met John several weeks ago, but it wasn't until several weeks later that John approached Sherlock again, and the younger man grappled for a name.

"Do you mean to say you don't know my name? I was introduced to you."

"People always mumble. I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't know my name," Sherlock said.

"Of course I know your name."

Sherlock wondered why John thought he could interest him in the slightest. But Sherlock flashed a warm smile, batted dark lashes, and asked, "Well, what's your name then?"

"John Watson."

Sherlock honestly didn't understand why John attended dances. He didn't dance very well and knew very few people. Sherlock vaguely considered that John might be in love with him, but brushed the thought away quickly. Didn't want to get too vain, thinking everyone was in love with him.

John was a quiet man, which suited Sherlock just fine. He had plenty to say, and John seemed happy to laugh along, occasionally muttering "brilliant" and "fantastic".

One Sunday, John paid a visit to the Holmes'. After their other guests had dispersed, Sherlock approached his mother. "Did you invite him?" he asked with indifference.

"Yes, I told him we see guests on Sundays. He's a doctor, has some sort of job in Hong Kong. Is he in love with you?"

"Haven't a clue, and I wouldn't marry him if he were."

Mrs Holmes shot him a vicious look. His mother didn't much care anymore whom Sherlock married, so long as she got him off her hands.

xXx

John made another house call to the Holmes', and this time, chatted at length with Mr Holmes.

"He seems an intelligent young man." Mr Holmes confided. Sherlock knew that his father was utterly bored by the parade of young men trying to win his son's favour.

"It's not often that you like any of my suitors, father."

"Well are you going to marry him?"

"Certainly not."

John was not his type. Short, with average features, and not an especially handsome young man. As the social season came to an end, Sherlock and John had seen much of each other, though Sherlock was rather convinced of John's indifference.

But Sherlock was 25 and single. He had always been the favourite, but his position was threatened. If he stayed at home much longer, Mother was sure to be horrible to him.

xXx

One afternoon, out collecting specimens for his next experiment, Sherlock saw John walking towards him.

"Hello," John greeted him. "Would you care to take a walk with me?"

A bit surprised, Sherlock pressed a stopper in the vial he had been scraping tree bark into, and joined John on the path. Sherlock began discussing his latest experiment, when John interrupted him, face pale and full of anxiety.

"I want to ask if you'll marry me."

Sherlock's mind churned, but his face was blank. "I really am quite surprised."

"Didn't you know I'm in love with you?"

"You certainly never showed it, and while I'm flattered by your interest…"

"I fell in love with you the first time I saw you. How could I not?"

"I… I don't think of you that way."

"Give me time to think." Sherlock wasn't quite sure why he didn't turn John away right then. He studied John's face; features which before seemed so ordinary became more interesting this close and Sherlock couldn't help but notice the quiet passion hidden in the doctor's eyes.

"I barely know you at all," Sherlock said quietly.

"I think I improve on acquaintance," John smiled.

It was certainly the strangest proposal Sherlock had ever had. He wasn't in love with John; he hadn't been in love with any of them.

But if Sherlock he refused John's offer, Mother would be insufferable; Mycroft would only further mock Sherlock, something he couldn't stand the thought of. It wasn't a very good marriage, but John Watson offered a new life.

"If I were to say I'd marry you, when would you want to marry me?"

John flushed crimson. "As soon as possible; I must return to Hong Kong in the fall."

Sherlock extended his hand. "You have to give me time to get used to you."

"Then it's a yes?" John practically gasped.

"I suppose so."

xXx

The next few months were a blur to Sherlock. John was unbelievably considerate, always looking after Sherlock to make sure he was eating and sleeping; he asked after Sherlock's experiments, and his politeness was so unwavering it almost made Sherlock sick.

Sherlock had hoped having sex would bring them closer, perhaps remove some of the layers of careful self-control John had trained into himself. But aside from cuddling afterwards, John kept himself wrapped up in mystery.

John made Sherlock nearly as bored and frustrated as he had been at home in England.

xXx

John took Sherlock out quite often. Going out to formal dinners at least offered Sherlock a distraction from John's quiet company.

One Thursday, John asked if Sherlock would like to accompany him to dinner with a local politician named James Moriarty. Sherlock knew very little about Moriarty, though he had met his husband, Sebastian, whom he found overwhelmingly dull.

When they arrived at the club, Moriarty was already waiting for them.

John introduced the two men. "Jim, this is my husband, Sherlock."

Moriarty's clownish features smoothed as he took in the sight of Sherlock. The two locked eyes, and a strange feeling passed through Sherlock. There was something unsettling about Jim. The politician's expression, for one, was alarming with wide-blown pupils, and when they shook hands, Moriarty's was practically vibrating with energy. Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, but Sherlock responded with a simple, "Pleasure."

"Likewise, likewise," Moriarty lilted. "John has told me sooooo much about you, though I do think he forgot to mention how gorgeous you are," he added with a wink. John stiffened, but said nothing.

"Well, shall we?" Sherlock suggested.

"Of course. Already got a table, gentlemen," Moriarty chimed.

Once seated, Sherlock turned to the Irish man. "So, Mr Moriarty, what type of politics are you in?"

"Jim, please," the Irishman replied. "It's nothing very interesting."

John gave Moriarty an appraising look and said, "Jim, you're too modest. He's the Assistant Colonial Secretary."

"Oh, well that sounds quite exciting," Sherlock intoned. Finally, he realized Jim's altered state, and for a moment, Sherlock admired Jim's confidence in being strung out in public; he had a playful cleverness that Sherlock couldn't ignore.

xXx

After the meal, John went outside to call a cab, Sherlock and Jim followed behind. Jim leaned into Sherlock, and whispered darkly, "It was very pleasant to meet you, Sherlock. Do give me a ring." He slipped a card into Sherlock's breast pocket and rose up, brushing Sherlock's cheek with his lips. "We're going to have so much fun," he whispered darkly.

As Sherlock met John at the cab, he could feel the weight of Moriarty's calling card on his chest.

xXx

Four days later, Sherlock was sitting at the phone, Jim's card in hand, turning it over. He wasn't sure what calling Jim would mean; perhaps that's why he decided to call.

"Jim Moriarty."

"It's Sherlock." Adrenaline rushed through the detective's veins.

" I'm so pleased you called. I thought you might."

"Yes, well..." Sherlock did not plan much further than this. What was Moriarty expecting?

"Um, how are you?"

"Oh, Sherlock, there's no need for small talk. I'm about to take a lunch. You're not busy, are you?"

"No."

"Perfect. I'll see you soon," Jim said excitedly, and the line went dead.

Sherlock vaguely considered the propriety of the situation, but all he did was make a phone call. He barely even said anything.

No more than ten minutes later, there was a knock at the side door. Jim clearly didn't want the amah to know he was there, or he would have used the front door and had the housekeeper let him in.

Sherlock set out tea, and walked to the door.

"Care for some tea? Kettle's just boiled."

"Splendid." Moriarty stepped inside. "I've brought us a gift."

"What for?"

"For a bit of fun." He sipped his tea, sighing into the cup. He reached into his pocket and procured a small pouch.

"What's this?"

"Oh please, Sherlock, I know you figured it out the first time we met. You are so terribly clever."

Sherlock hesitated. "Cocaine?"

Jim held out a small straw to Sherlock, who cautiously took and inspected it. Jim extracted the white powder from the pouch, arranging two neat lines on the tea tray. "Would you like to go first, or shall I?"

He had considered experimenting with drugs, hoping they might either sharpen his mind or quiet it. Here was the perfect opportunity...

Jim grinned, nodding for Sherlock to go ahead, so he bent over the tray, and, straw in nose, inhaled deeply.

Moriarty followed suit, and together they plunged into a beautiful, drug-filled dream.

"Isn't it magnificent?"

"Mmm," Sherlock replied. He was cataloguing his body's reactions carefully. Jim inched closer to his face.

"Sherlock," he breathed.

"Yes?"

"You. Are. Mine," he growled, and violently he covered Sherlock's mouth with his own. He inhaled sharply, but with cocaine coursing through his body, Sherlock responded beautifully. Soon, hands were everywhere, aggressively trying to touch every centimetre of each other's skin. Clothes peeled off, and mouths travelled down to chests, stomachs, hips.

This was the perfect distraction. No thinking, just instinct and Jim's touch, heightened to amazing levels by the drug.

As the high wore off, the two men slowly dressed, and Jim slipped out the side door.

"Catch you later," Sherlock said to himself.

xXx

Sherlock and Jim met with increasing frequency. John left for work; Sherlock tended his experiments, awaiting Jim's arrival. A gentle tap at the side let Sherlock know that the high his body craved would come soon. Their physical relationship evolved with their addictions; straws and snogging were replaced with needles and sex. Injection gave a much faster, stronger high without the nosebleeds.

Sherlock became entirely dependent upon his meetings with Moriarty.

xXx

That evening, Sherlock was reading a book on the couch, long limbs stretched out lazily when John got home from the lab.

"Good evening, Sherlock. How was your day?" John asked.

"Oh fine. Didn't do much." Sherlock cleared his throat. "How was work?"

"Fine." Something about his body language put Sherlock on edge. His back was stiff, and his usually soft blue eyes were icy.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but John beat him to it.

"Did you leave the house today?"

Not good, Sherlock thought. Keeping his features quiet, he replied, "I said I didn't do much."

"Not answering my question. I came home for lunch, you know. Didn't see you here. Where did you go?"

"I must've been napping."

"You? Napping? I doubt that," John snorted derisively. "Sherlock, I will ask you only once more. Where were you today?"

Getting high with Jim Moriarty and then fucking his brains out. "I was at home all day. I didn't do anything."

"Right," the doctor set his briefcase on the chair heavily. "I know James Moriarty was here today, as he has been quite frequently, and at the very least, you two were having some rather enthusiastic sex. I have my suspicions about your drug abuse, too, if you'd like to hear them."

Sherlock had he thought he was clever enough to keep it covered up. So how did John know it was so regular?

"Sherlock, I'm a doctor! Did you really think I was stupid enough to miss the signs? You've got track marks on your arms, and had a nasty sniffling habit a while back. There are lovebites on your chest that I know I didn't give you. You've been more withdrawn than usual, barely letting me touch you. It seemed obvious what was going on."

"John, I—"

"No, Sherlock. I don't want to hear it. I loved you, I saved you from your boring life, from disappointing your parents, took you to this beautiful country with me and this is how you treat me?"

"Loved?" Sherlock whispered.

"Yes, I'm afraid so, Sherlock. I gave you everything I had, but I guess it wasn't enough. How can you possibly expect me to continue loving you after you've betrayed me so completely?"

"I didn't plan on getting caught."

"Well obviously not!" John shouted, and the normally shy man was visibly trembling with anger. "Who plans on being caught in an adulterous, drug-addled affair?"

"John, please—"

"Stop." John sucked in a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. Sherlock waited, suddenly afraid of his husband's rage.

"The headquarters announced that Dr Kirkpatrick, a missionary, has died. Cholera. I have volunteered to take his place in Mei-tan-fu."

"Well that's dreadful."

"You will be accompanying me."

"I will do no such thing! Voluntarily going into the middle of the centre of the cholera epidemic? Are you mad?" Sherlock seethed.

There was steel in John's voice when he responds. "You have betrayed me, dishonoured our marriage, and tainted my love for you. You will accompany me, cholera epidemic or no."

"John, there must be another way. I could—"

"What? What could you possibly do to make this alright?"

"You... you could divorce me."

"Sherlock, I don't want to publicly shame you. I just want you to know how much you've hurt me."

"Well then divorce me! Cut me out, penniless, in the middle of China!"

"No. That's exactly what you want. However..."

"What?"

"If Moriarty will agree to divorce Sebastian, and marry you in one week's time."

Skeptically, Sherlock replied, "Fine. I'll go to him tomorrow; he'll take me, he'll do it. I know him."

John raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, and silently stalked to their bedroom, closing the door gently behind him.

xXx

"You know I can't do that, Sherlock." Jim sipped his tea.

"But he's trying to take me some god-forsaken cholera jungle! You have to marry me, it's the only way!"

"I'm a public figure, I can't get divorced then turn around and marry you; think of what that would look like for me."

"But Jim—"

"Besides, I couldn't do that to Seb. He's been so good to me. He'll forgive me."

"I've been good to you."

"You've been lovely. But I'm afraid with John's ultimatum, there's nothing to be done except for us to return to our respective spouses."

"You're sending me to my death!"

"I'm afraid that's really not my problem, Sherlock. I can't marry you. I love you, darling, but I just can't make the sacrifice." He puts his teacup down gently in its saucer, and calls melodiously, "Margaret! You can send my 1 o'clock in now. Mr Holmes is on his way out."

Moriarty turned back to Sherlock, putting a patronizing hand on the taller man's shoulder. Sherlock swatted it away. "It's for the best, love."

"I hate you."

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

xXx

"I'm going with you."

"Hmm?"

"To Mei-tan-fu. I'm going. When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. I've already had the amah pack your things."

John knew. He knew how this would play out. It wasn't a generous offer at all. It was to embarrass Sherlock. And that hurt more than Sherlock could understand.

xXx

The trip to Mei-tan-fu was long, sweltering, and filled with gorgeous landscapes. Sherlock was in too much of a mood to pay it much attention, but John pointed out plants or cloud formations that caught his eye, to no one in particular.

Their new home was a run-down bungalow; not very spacious, and certainly not fitted with anything beyond the basic amenities. The first few weeks were uncomfortably silent; John was quieter than usual, and Sherlock was too afraid to approach him at all.

Sherlock did find company, however, in their only neighbour, the Deputy Commissioner. His name was Lestrade, and he had a meagre record collection that was his pride and joy. One day, Lestrade invited himself to dinner, as it were. "There's not been much company since old Kirkpatrick died, and I'm afraid I've worn out my welcome with the girl at the orphanage."

With Lestrade's presence, John and Sherlock were more at ease in each other's presence since arriving in their new surroundings.

xXx

Slowly, the two began speaking again. At first, it was just small courtesies—"would you like a cuppa?" or "draw the curtains, please"—but the tension eased out of the house with time. Sherlock spent much of his daytime with Lestrade, chatting about crimes and mysteries, passing the time.

But when Lestrade began running out of cases, Sherlock grew bored. He yearned for the drugs that had given him refuge from his mind, but he knew of no way to find them, and knew that John would find him out.

"Suppose they could use an extra hand down at the orphanage. The nurse, Molly, she's rather lovely. Had something of a fling with her, mind; didn't quite work out. But I think you two would hit it off. She volunteered from a morgue, believe it or not."

The next morning, Sherlock found himself wandering into an orphanage full of running, laughing children. A young lady with mousey brown hair and big, round eyes greeted him. "Hello, Mr Watson, Greg mentioned you might be down this way."

Sherlock winced at being addressed by his husband's name, but offered a polite smile to the girl. "Sherlock, please. You must be Molly Hooper?"

"Indeed I am. Let me show you around, where you can give us a hand."

They were dreadfully understaffed. Molly kept getting distracted by someone needing a diaper change, or an argument over a toy.

Off to arbitrate another scuffle, Sherlock spied an open door and discovered it was a music room. A piano, a guitar, and – yes. A violin. Sherlock picked up the delicate instrument and began a simple melody, one that he remembered from his childhood. The children gathered around him, began singing along.

Normally, Sherlock is, at best, impatient with children, but seeing their joy in his music has given him new hope. Maybe he can be helpful. Or at least not bored.

xXx

Over the next few months, Sherlock and John develop something of a friendship. They begin to tell each other about their days, even sharing in a few jokes, going on walks in the evenings.

Spending so much time around the compassionate Molly, and the easy-going Lestrade, Sherlock realised what a terrible person he's been to John. John had loved him from the start, promising that he got better upon acquaintance, but Sherlock was too impatient to allow him the chance. In the middle of cholera-infested China, Sherlock finally felt regret and remorse.

xXx

He began to value John's opinions, from how nice the weather was to local politics. He knew the risk John was taking in working on the frontlines of the epidemic, but the doctor's quiet courage was inspirational. Sherlock even found himself softening to John's plain looks.

John had been warming back up to Sherlock, too. A light touch on the back as John stepped behind Sherlock, or a warm smile when he came home gave away his forgiveness.

That evening, John and Sherlock were languidly occupying their sitting room. John was reading a book, Sherlock's head in his lap as the taller man stretched out over the rest of the sofa. John's fingers absently carded through Sherlock's curls.

When John removed his hand to turn the page, Sherlock took it gently, and drew it to his lips for a delicate kiss. The rest of John's body melted with the touch.

Sherlock sat up, and knelt next to his husband. John put his book aside and met Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock took John's face in slender hands and searched his eyes for consent. He knew John wanted him still—he's deduced that ages ago— but he had to make sure that this was the right time, that he was forgiven.

John's eyelids fluttered closed, and that was all Sherlock needed. He pressed his lips softly but urgently to John's, and John tilted his head up to deepen the kiss. The barriers of betrayal and distrust crumbled, and they tumbled into each other's bodies like newlyweds.

Eager hands fussed with Sherlock's shirt buttons, and Sherlock hastened to help, opening John's shirt and pushing it back over his shoulders. Lips move down to jaws, clavicles; hands roamed over the narrow planes of Sherlock's back. Pausing briefly for air, John tugged at Sherlock's waistband. Sherlock immediately helped John out of his trousers as well.

Sherlock relinquished control again as John kissed his way down Sherlock's chest. Arching into the touch, Sherlock let out a quiet moan. John travelled further down his husband's body, licking at hip bones. "Sherlock," he breathed.

"Yes, John."

Two less pairs of silk boxers, a bottle of lube, and some awkward repositioning later, Sherlock found himself very naked and very aroused underneath John's skilled hands and lips. John's was panting now, as he lifts Sherlock's leg onto his shoulder. Flipping the cap off the small bottle, John kissed Sherlock's knee before letting his fingers trail down his husband's thigh, and gently began preparing him.

It had been so long since they'd kissed or touched and Sherlock was overwhelmed. It took all his concentration to relax as John slid a second finger in, all the while lavishing kisses on whatever skin he could reach.

"Alright?"

"More," Sherlock growled, and slowly, John removed his fingers and pulled Sherlock's mouth up for another searing kiss.

"I could never...Sherlock... wanted you since..." John mumbled between kisses.

"I know, John... I... I'm sorry, John. I'm yours now... I'm sorry for how wretched I was—"

"Not another word." And John eased himself into Sherlock.

Suddenly, no cocaine-filled haze could compare with this new and raw sensation of affection and desire. Sherlock's brain tried to catalogue all the sensations, but there was too much. Their previous sexual encounters had been devoid of emotion for Sherlock. But now, he was determined to make up for lost time.

John rocked faster, his grip on Sherlock's hips tighter than ever. Sherlock sat up to feel John's mouth on his again. John obliged him, and the changed angle was perfect. Sherlock clutched to John frantically, knowing he wouldn't last much longer.

"John, I'm—"

"Me too."

John nipped at Sherlock's full bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth and Sherlock hummed in appreciation. The vibration went straight to John's groin, and he was over the edge. Sherlock followed just after, and they held each other through the waves.

When they were mostly recovered, John grabbed a towel and cleaned them up. He extended a hand. "Come to bed with me."

Sherlock followed obediently. They held each other, foreheads together, eyes closed in a post-coital bliss.

They woke this way in the morning.

Sherlock awoke first; a thrill ran through him when he remembered that he was finally forgiven. Pressing a delicate kiss to John's cheek, Sherlock made sure John is still asleep and whispers, "I love you."

xXx

Despite the events of the previous night, John still had to go down to the clinic, no matter how much Sherlock begged him to stay in bed all day.

"I'll be back tonight," John reminded him, and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's curls before grabbing his kit and heading out.

Sherlock sulked. He wanted nothing more than to marvel in John's body, in John's forgiveness.

It was a long day for Sherlock Holmes.

xXx

When John finally came home, he was exhausted. There was little treatment he could provide for the suffering souls he saw all day, save for a saline-solution IV that attempted tostave off dehydration.

Sherlock took his bag at the door, and pulled him in for a quick kiss.

"How was work?"

"I wish there was more I could do for them."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm quite knackered; I think I'll skip dinner tonight and just go to bed."

"You sound like me, not eating meals."

"Except I'm going to sleep."

"That's true." Sherlock pauses. "I think I'll be up a bit later..."

"It's fine. Join me when you're ready?" he says, and places a lazy kiss on Sherlock's mouth.

xXx

In the morning, John felt anything but better. He attributed his headache and the strange feeling in his stomach to his lack of dinner previously. He ate a simple breakfast before reminding Sherlock that Lestrade would be over for dinner that evening.

"Oh good, we haven't seen him in a while."

"Too true. Well I'd best be off..." John sighed tiredly.

Sherlock gave him a chaste kiss, but John searched for more. Sherlock chuckles, pulling back. "Go on, my brave doctor, go save lives."

"Goodbye, Sherlock." He opens the front door before adding quietly, "I love you."

John pulled the door shut and dashed down the path, leaving Sherlock to blush furiously in their living room. It had been so long since John had spoken those words, and he found their effect was much stronger than it used to be.

xXx

Sherlock was idly passing time on an experiment involving local fruits when an sharp knock banged on the front door. Rolling his eyes, he carefully set down his freshly prepared slides. When he got to the front room, Deputy Commissioner Lestrade was already inside.

"Sherlock," he huffed, clearly having run up the steep hill to the bungalow, "It's John."

Sherlock's blood ran cold. "What happened."

"Just come."

Sherlock rushed out the door, following Lestrade. It felt like miles, but they finally arrived at the clinic. Lestrade led him to a small canvas tent.

"He's inside."

Fear coursed through Sherlock as he drew back the flap. John laid on a cot, pale and sweaty, a saline drip line running into his arm.

"Sherlock?" John croaked. "No, you have to get out. You can't get sick."

"John, what's... what's happening? You're okay, aren't you?" Sherlock knew the words were irrational. He knew exactly what happened. But it hurt too much, so he put off reality a few seconds more.

"You know what this is..." John whispered, turning away from Sherlock. The drops rolling down his cheeks aren't just sweat.

"No." Sherlock said. "No, this can't—you—"

"Sherlock." John's voice threatened tears.

"John, there must be something we can do! You're a doctor for god's sake!"

"There's only one ending to this story."

"No. I won't—"

"You won't allow it?" John coughed out a laugh. "That's one of the things I love about you. You have such spirit, such confidence. Something"—Racking coughs took over for a moment—"Something I never had."

"Oh, but John, you do! You do, don't you see? You were so strong and wonderful and gave me a second chance, and I... love you. I love you and I won't let you die." His voice cracked on the last word.

John coughed again, this time leaning over his cot groping for a pail, into which he vomited violently.

Feeling useless, Sherlock draped a wet flannel on his husband's forehead, and gently stroked John's short blond hair.

"Sherlock... I may have been angry, hell, I was furious, with you when I asked you to come here with me, but I want you to know that I never stopped loving you. Please don't"—more coughing—"don't forget me, Sherlock. You were my life. Never forget that."

"John, don't leave me. You can't. I've only just begun to understand what this means, what loving you means. I love you, John. I love you, you can't leave me..." Sherlock gathered John up in his arms, holding him as violent coughs brought another bout of vomiting.

Sherlock stayed in the tent until John fell asleep.

Sherlock stayed in the tent until John's chest stopped rising.

Sherlock stays in the tent until Lestrade pulls him out, whispering quietly, "It's time, Sherlock. He's gone."

xXx

Five years later, Sherlock was back in England. He lived in London now. He visits his father on occasion, but his mother had died while he was in China.

He adopted a son, the bastard child of John's sister, Harriet, who got knocked-up quite by accident and had no intentions of raising a child.

Sherlock named the boy Hamish, after John, and vowed that he would raise him to be the best combination of Sherlock and John. Intelligent, observant, inquisitive; compassionate, loving, brave, strong.

Sherlock's path had begun with selfishness, vanity, and pain, but he could see now that his future could be—would be—different. He would follow the path that had led him back to John, and John would lead him home.