A/N: So this is longer than part one – I couldn't resist some cute fluffy stuff before I went into the actual 'end'. I'm not sure what kind of hormones are charging through my body at the moment but for the past few weeks I've been completely consumed by how pretty everything is, and how much I love everything from my pet turtle to Benedict Cumberbatch's nose. Hence my little rant, hope you enjoy. The end was really, really hard to write, and I'll probably take it down, rework it some and then repost it a few times in the next few weeks, so I'd appreciate your feedback on how I can improve it. I know I had a few tense issues because once again I'm not quite sure how to tense-ify Sherlock's POV… I got a bit lost. Ta!

Love and kisses,
-for you!

The End – John

There were so many things John loved about his relationship with Sherlock. He wrote them down once, meant to show it to the detective but chickened out and threw it into the fire.

There was the way his lover – God, he still couldn't get over the way he could use that word when describing Sherlock – sat at the kitchen table of a morning, hunched over black coffee with two sugars, top teeth dragging slightly over his bottom lip, staring at John with this sort of content look on his face.

And there was the noises he made as he fell asleep sometimes, although if you asked him he'd deny it vehemently. Well, of course you didn't hear it Sherlock, you were very nearly asleep.

There were things he was sure the detective only did because he could tell John wanted him to, even if John hadn't realised he wanted it until it was happening; the feeling present as a warmth through his entire body that felt so right it was intoxicating. But then there were things that he was sure were just Sherlock, Sherlock wanting or feeling or just being.

He thought quite often back when he was lusting in solitude that it was completely alien and different, the way he felt for Sherlock. He'd been in love before, or at least he'd thought he had. But this was different. John's no perfectionist and he's not shallow, but there are parts of the human body that he would not under any circumstances consider attractive. Like feet – God, they were nasty. He'd heard of foot fetishes before and that was just weird. It probably stemmed from the fact that his own feet were rather odd-looking, short and wide with stubby little toes. Anyway he'd never been able to bear feet in general. The same principle probably applied to noses – he didn't like his own, big and slightly bulbous, and so he'd never been able to find attraction in anyone else's, no matter how big or otherwise it may have been.

And bums. What was it with other people's obsessions with each other's arses? He'd appreciated the odd one before, when someone extremely toned-looking stepped in front of him at just the right angle, but only clothed. Naked butts were just so childish and juvenile and how could that possibly be sexy?

But John found himself so pathetically attracted to Sherlock's nose, pale and straight and strong, the largish feature in that fine-boned face that made it masculine, that from an early stage in his infatuation with the detective he'd really wanted to lick it. And he'd found when he lay in bed, shut his eyes and allowed his fantasies to overtake his mind that the fantasy he focussed on was Sherlock stretched out naked, not moving while John licked his nose and his incredibly cupid-bowed lips and his eyebrows and every glorious inch of him. And then he'd realised that he'd spend an enormous amount of time lingering over Sherlock's feet. They were as elegant as the rest of him, long and narrow and pale, and John had imagined licking the soft, crinkly skin of his high insteps and around up to his gorgeous ankles. It bothered John sometimes how casual and uncaring Sherlock was with his body, launching it around and scratching it and just not paying attention to it. Didn't he know it was beautiful? It was supposed to be treasured, to be worshipped.

And Sherlock's arse – well. That was… it was thin and soft and ticklish, and it somehow managed to be the complete opposite of juvenile. His extremely adult-looking rear was definitely one of the sexiest things about him. John wasn't quite sure what to make of that, but he sure as hell wasn't complaining.

But when Sherlock had finally allowed John to live out this fantasy, stretching out for him and closing his eyes and just breathing gently, he'd found it to be a completely non-sexual experience. It wasn't about lust or desire somehow, but just about affection and loving Sherlock so completely there wasn't an inch of him he didn't want to explore and discover and make his own. He'd expected to get hard – he'd expected Sherlock to get hard – but the detective just lay there and took it, breathing slowly and smiling a soft, happy smile, and John had been too overcome with love to even think about sex. When he'd finally sated himself with that glorious body he'd lain down next to him on the sitting-room floor and held him close, and Sherlock had clung onto him and not let go for hours.

Maybe that was the best thing. The way sometimes Sherlock would need him and suddenly stop whatever he was doing and pull him close and just hold him for a while, breathing heavily like he was trying to absorb him. Knowing that Sherlock wasn't doing this just because John defended him sometimes and bought milk and he didn't want him to leave, but because in some capacity the detective needed him and loved him.

He loved best the way that their relationship didn't have to be about sex. That it was, a lot of the time, and that was incredible, but it didn't have to be. It was about how they completed each other in every possible way, about how John could finish Sherlock's sentences just as easily as Sherlock could finish John's, about how incredible it felt not to be loved by someone else but to be loved by this someone else.

He supposes now that that was all part of the plan. He's not sure, still, quite why things happened the way they did, right from the moment he first realised that the slight bulge in his trousers was actually there because of Sherlock till right now, but he knows that every single thing about those months was the way it was because Sherlock wanted it to be. And every time someone even mentions the name Holmes – which they do quite often, because the consulting detective is quite the topic of conversation these days, he has to curl into a tight ball and cry violently to stop himself from throwing up or exploding.

It was all very sudden, like all those Road Runner cartoons when Wily Coyote is so focussed on running that he doesn't realise he's run right off the edge of a cliff. He'd been meeting a friend at the pub and he came home late and maybe he was slightly tipsy; either way he was more than a little horny and he came into the sitting room to find Sherlock at the kitchen table doing something unmentionable with – well, John didn't want to know what it was. He'd trilled his greetings in a voice that was definitely an octave or so higher than his usual, and Sherlock had looked up and yes, he'd definitely been tipsy because he hadn't even noticed the vague flash of irritation on the detective's face that had quickly been rearranged into a smile. "You've been drinking," his lover stated – he said to John that he had begun stating the obvious because he was never sure whether what was obvious to him was obvious to other people, and so he was just checking that John had noticed it. It had taken a while to convince him that yes, 'John, I'm back' was fairly self-explanatory and yes, he could probably work that one out on his own. Anyway on this occasion John knew he'd been drinking and Sherlock stating the obvious was amusing enough to elicit a giggle from him. "Go to bed," the consulting detective had dismissed haughtily, turning back to his test tubes.

But John Watson can be rather persistent when he's had one too many. "Only if you come with me," he said suggestively, waggling his eyebrows until he felt like they might wriggle off and pulling off his jumper. Sherlock rolled his eyes, apparently completely oblivious to his partner shrugging out of his shirt.

"You're drunk," he said boredly. "I'm busy." So John had come up behind the stoic consulting detective and kissed his neck, little fluttery kisses that usually make Sherlock squirm and immediately stop any present tasks that draw attention away from them. But this time Sherlock didn't react. Not even a little bit.

That's when John sobered up. Completely. Just like that he was wide-awake and present and serious. Sherlock not responding was something that hardly ever happened. He could remember precisely three times when he'd experimented – he liked that word mostly because it was Sherlock's – by kissing him and playing with his fingers and stroking his neck while he was on a case or in the middle of an experiment and the detective had ignored him like this. And even then there'd been a hitch in his breath, a slight tremor of the hands until Sherlock had turned around and ordered John to stop distracting him.

Now there was no change whatsoever. What was going on? John moved until he stood between the detective and the table, sucking in his gut to squeeze into the gap. "Sherlock?" he touched the sides of that pale jaw, angling his face until he was sure he had the other man's attention. He searched those incredible eyes for a sign of the softness and affection he'd never not found in them, and saw nothing but irritation. Desperate now, he bent forwards and kissed him, pushed his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and caressed his soft palate. The detective pulled away.

Suddenly Wily Coyote had looked down and realised there was nothing under his feet, tried to backpedal furiously but started to fall.

The End – Sherlock

He has to admit that his plan backfired somewhat spectacularly, and that if he's completely honest with himself he may not have completely thought it through to the end. The aim of the plan had been to keep John around, and now all of the doctor's belongings had been moved out of the flat and they hadn't seen each other for at least a week. Not that you'd notice the absence of John's things, really; all of the clutter about the place had always been Sherlock's.

He knew he'd really hurt John. He tried to feel bad for a bit before he accepted that it was useless. Guilt just wasn't in his emotional vocabulary. The pain that had him prostrated on the sofa, unmoving, hungry but too comatose to move, hazing in and out of sleep, was for his own loss.

He'd tried to get into the morgue, but Molly's on holiday at the moment and the stiff, upright lady in charge wouldn't let him in. Molly had been sick once and Sherlock had muscled his way in purely because of Doctor Watson following him around. At first glance people take Doctor Watson a lot more seriously than Mister Holmes. And they'd escaped the attention of patrol cars a few times by Sherlock quickly pushing the doctor against a wall and snogging him; the police vehicle that had been so avidly pursuing a man in a black coat and another in a white jumper now shouted a dismissive 'faggots!' out the window to the two men – one in an impeccable suit, the other a red shirt and combat slacks, with outer layers of clothing hanging off their arms – having at each other in the middle of London.

And of course John cared about him, and that felt nice. Sebastian had made contact with them again once and as soon as he'd seen their clasped hands in the restaurant he'd dropped his mocking, superior air and treated Sherlock like an equal. It was good to always have someone to fall back on who gave him everything without ever asking why.

He'd half-expected pretending to love John to be annoying, to constantly watch what he was doing in an attempt to be more considerate, to always have to give him a 'cuddle' (cuddle was John's word, and the few times Sherlock had used it had sounded so strange he'd soon desisted) when either of them got home, to hold hands and spend time together doing waste-of-time couple-y things, to always be thinking about how John would react to things and how John would want him to react to things, to do a few unexpected things every now and then so that John thought he needed him. But most of it hadn't been. Regulating his sleep patterns had been difficult – John got grumpy when Sherlock tried to snake into bed beside him at three in the morning – but he had to admit it actually felt quite refreshing to wake up rested, and that lying there with John tucked under his arm breathing steadily was extremely conducive to good solid thinking.

Not that there hadn't been moments when the façade had been a real struggle, but he'd carried it off impeccably. He was already a master at giving his own emotions the back seat. But that one night John had been drunk and he must have misjudged just how drunk he was, because he'd thought he wouldn't notice if the subtle signs were missing and the experiment he'd been working on was important to the case he was trying to solve so he couldn't even pretend to be distracted. And then suddenly John had noticed, something had clicked in that mind and he'd stuttered a few incoherent syllables before throwing up in the sink sobbing something about how every moment of total bliss had been a lie.

Sherlock was about to hitch up the I-love-John face again and say that not all of it had been a lie, then he'd realised that it had, then he'd thought well if the rest of it had been a lie he might as well lie about this too and then he thought why was he even bothering?

He misses John now, though. In a self-centred sort of a way that meant if John were here, he'd have a cup of tea in his hand and probably have his head in John's stocky lap being petted like a cat while watching reality television or betting John who the killer was in a made-for-tv crime movie. The thing he loved about that game was that while he knew criminals, John knew television, and so the chances were fairly even.

His phone chimes in his jacket pocket and he smiles at how John doesn't wait to be asked anymore, just dives right in and fishes it out for him. After a while he remembers that John isn't here, remembers why, snorts disgustedly and digs it out himself.

You've lost something. –Mycroft

No freaking duh. His brother is usually free from humanity's curse of constantly needing to state the obvious, but apparently tonight he's suffering from some sort of relapse. He's lost John. He'd quite like to be able to cry, to positively howl until Mrs Hudson comes running or someone calls noise control. He sniffs and tries to build up the wisps of emotion inside him into some kind of tornado he can unleash, but the little clouds refuse to gather and he gives up. Crying, he's found, is oddly satisfying. Not being able to hurts like hell. And he's not sure anymore why he's hurting, because every time he thinks about it he gets a different answer. He thinks of John licking his feet and it hurts. He thinks of John punching Anderson and it hurts. He thinks of where John is now, probably still comatose with the shock of having his perfect world so spectacularly destroyed, and it hurts.

After a few more hours of this nothing he picks up his phone, deletes the text from Mycroft and sends one to John.

I miss you. I'm so sorry. I need a cuddle. -SH

A/N: Yeah, okay. No more. Feedback please and I will love you...

-for you!