Well, thanks again everyone for reading this and following it!^-^ This is the last chapter for this story, but I will be doing more in the future, hopefully. I love the way this turned out,so enjoy :D And don't forget to review, they are love!


John didn't know where he was going to go, but hell, if he didn't get out of that place now then he was going to go mad. He took the stairs two at a time, the heat in his chest never ceasing and always reminding him that he could have done more. He didn't speak or make any noise as he ran out of the building because he didn't trust his voice. All he needed was one comforting gaze to let loose every feeling he had ever hid since his time in the army.

Once outside in the biting cold air of December, John didn't look back as he ran away. The cold was frigid on his clothes as he moved, but it was nothing compared to the freezing ice water in his veins. He wasn't upset now, and wasn't having a panic attack, which should have been good, except that John Watson was falling into self-hate, something he'd thought he'd beaten years ago.

After the explosion in Afghanistan two years ago, when John had left the hospital, and after he had time to mull things over, he had berated himself repeatedly about what happened with his comrades. Every day after that, he'd wake up and fall deeper and deeper into depression. And it would've killed him too if Harry hadn't helped him out of it. He always thought, after that horrible period of his life, that it'd never come back and that maybe he could live a fairly normal life. But everything, all of this- it was eating a hole in him. He was wrong. Was wrong for ever getting a thrill off of cases like Sherlock did, it wasn't right for him.

Buildings and people become one big blur after an hour of mindlessly running around. He didn't look at them, just kept his head down so the strangers couldn't see the shame written there. Mind numb and racing all at once, heart somehow shattered and pounding, he used his long legs to carry him down the street to an empty alleyway, where he finally collapsed onto a mound of garbage bags that smelled horrible.

The sun had set considerably, reminding John that he hadn't had a good night's rest in forever and he had just run over two miles without stopping. No one was coming for him, and surely not Sherlock. He was so tired, so sore… he just wanted to close his eyes and leave everything behind, and the garbage bags made an excellent cushion to say the least.

"Oh God, please let me live!"

John hadn't even known he'd fallen asleep until a horrible shout resonating around the empty alleyway startled him awake. It was ragged, it was desperate, it was frightened and it wasn't until he couldn't breathe that he realized he'd been the one screaming.

After a couple of minutes, the dream finally faded, leaving him with the quiet London night, and the realization that he is all alone in this world. Sherlock hasn't come back to him and will never do so.

A sharp gasp broke from the blonde man's chest before he let his head fall. He curled into a ball, wrapping his arms protectively around his shaking form to try and stifle the wracking sobs that had taken over. He could feel the sweat that made his light blue sweater stick to him, but couldn't find the will to uncling it; just couldn't find the will to do much more than cry and rock back and forth. It wasn't until his sobs had reached their peak that he heard footsteps on the cobble rode ahead of him.

Thud- thud- thud- thud, like knives in his battered, tortured mind.

Great, I'm going to die unknowingly at the worst time.

He didn't look who it was because somehow, somewhere in his mind, he could hear Sherlock say something about not letting his death be boring. In some weird way, it could be his goodbye to the detective to go out the way the man had always planned; not boring.

Thud- thud- thud-thud, whoever it was had gotten closer, and then all at once everything happened as if from far away. John shrunk back instinctively as the stranger bent down behind him, grabbing him around the waist; hands go through his sandy blonde hair, ready to expose his throat for the knife blade.

Goodbye Sherlock, he thinks with deadly fear while awaiting the sharp stab of pain across his neck.

But it never does come. A minute passes by, and then another until he realizes that he's bloody alive. Though, the high of the realization doesn't stick around for long when he feels his heart slamming painfully against his ribs as he heaves in sobbing breaths of air, reminding him that he was still having a panic attack, even if it had been masked by fear.

"John? John, it's okay. It was just a bad dream."

It can't be…

But it is. There's no mistaking the dark curly hair, beautiful pale skin, and warm brown eyes. John uncurls and looks up at Sherlock, his eyes still not completely focused, still trying to find the line between real and fake in the ruins of his nightmare.

Slowly he looks down, not sure of his voice at the moment. "Sherlock…..why are-why did you come?"

Sherlock runs his slender fingers across John's back in soothing circles. "Because, I'm not ready to say goodbye yet. I saw you run away and I- I don't know." Sherlock ran an agitated hand through his curls.

It's all John can do not to grab Sherlock's face and snogg him right there, but he didn't because he knew, knew that Sherlock didn't have any human emotions and wouldn't have tolerate anything of that nature. That was the idea anyways, before the consulting detective smashed his lips to the shorter man's. They sat quietly in the darkened alleyway, passionately kissing each other until Sherlock pulled away, looking a little sheepish.

"Are you okay," John asked. He was afraid that Sherlock had been getting second thoughts about the kiss, and if that were the case, he didn't know how his heart would take it.

"Me? Yeah. Fine. Fine. That, ah-thing that you did. That you um, with your tongue. That was, uh, good.

John laughed briskly, still feelings the after effects of his panic attack. His head was still covered in a thick sheen of sweat, and his hands trembled, but how much of that was from the kiss was uncertain.

"Brilliant," he murmured before crushing his lips to the detectives again, a smile stretching wide across his face.

Sherlock stooped his head down a little. John closed his eyes, shutting the outside world out just for that moment so no doubts or worries could ruin the heated moment between the pair. They lay in a dirty alleyway and kissed.