Final chapter! Thank you again for the reviews. I'm just so excited to have… 9 lol! If you like, I'll certainly provide some more Johnlock fluffity-fluff ;)

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"Sherlock couldn't make it then?" Stamford quips. He knows Sherlock never 'makes it' to anything that could be considered a social occasion.

John shrugs. "No."

Having barely spoken to Sherlock in the last three days, John really doesn't want to talk about him. He had thought a night out drinking with Stamford would be a good idea to get the thought of Sherlock out of his head, but the moment he stepped into the pub he realised this was a mistake. There's nothing like the sound of people being happy to remind you of how unhappy you are.

"So what's it like having him back from the dead?" Stamford laughs, swigging his beer like it's orange juice. "I bet you gave him one hell of a black eye."

John offers a strained smile across the small table. "Let's just say I doubt he'll be faking his own death again any time soon. Or I will actually kill him."

"I always knew he was crazy but that really was beyond. All that stuff that was in the newspapers… Well," he clears his throat, "I can tell you don't really want to talk about it."

John instantly feels guilty for his sullen face. Stamford is probably the closest he's had to a 'normal' friend since leaving the army. But he can't just sit and listen to some mindless Sherlock banter. "Sorry, no. It's just we've had a bit of a... domestic. Sherlock's being a complete…"

"He's being a bit too much 'Sherlock Holmes'?" Stamford suggests.

"Yes, a good deal too much. Could we just not talk about him?"

The truth is that John is fed up of not being with Sherlock. He had hoped Sherlock would just crawl into his bed and explain how they are no longer two separate entities while continuing his taste test of Johns pores. Instead, Sherlock had gone on some sort of hunger strike, seemingly in hopes of having John admit that love is nothing more than a chemical imbalance.

There has been a large portion of John's life in which he did not share a bed with Sherlock Holmes, but now the emptiness feels intolerable. How is a person supposed to rest without a chiselled man staring incessantly and sighing or typing manically long into the night or monitoring the moisture output of your breath?

As John wonders if perhaps he does want to talk about Sherlock, after all, Stamford witters on about his new diet and how his youngest won a science competition. This is exactly why Sherlock always avoids nights out with Stamford. They are completely and unavoidably normal.

At around half nine, John's phone vibrates in his pocket. He can't help but be pleased to see that it's Sherlock.

John, I need you. SH

While Stamford continues talking, John quickly responds:

Physically, emotionally or for a case?

He carefully places the phone on the table in front of him. He's trying not to feel too much optimism about the motives behind this text. The chances are low that Sherlock has come to his sense and John tries not to seem interested when the phone lights up again.

Stamford clearly suspects something though, as he says, "Sherlock?"

"Yeah," John says and reads the message.

Whichever means you'll get here quickest. It's important. 29 Finsbury Park Road.

It takes less than five minutes for John to make his excuses to Stamford and to find a taxi. Stamford is a good friend, John decides on his way to Finsbury Park. He hadn't looked resentful or bemused at John's sudden exit. He had almost seemed understanding, despite John not really understanding the decision himself.

The two-story terrace residences of Finsbury Park road are flashing blue in the light of the police cars. The taxi pulls to a halt outside the police line and John gets out, scanning the swarm of police for that distinctive man. As soon as Sherlock sees him, he beelines towards John and guides him to one side.

"Well?" John demands. "What's going on then?"

Sherlock looks around them at the three police cars and yards of yellow police tape. "Oh, this? Nothing. He's not really dead, just hiding in Devon."

"Oh god." John feels a sinking in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock's eyes tell him that a massively romantic apology is not on the cards. "What am I doing here then?"

"I need you to act normal with me. Just act as if you aren't mad with me for a moment."

"What? Why?"

Sherlock shrugs. "To prove a point."

John brain freezes for a moment out of pure frustration. How could he have possibly persuaded himself that he was in love with this man, of all men? "Is that all I'm here for? To make them think I'm not pissed off with you? Sherlock, I was out with someone."

"What, a date?" Sherlock sneers.

"No, of course not. Don't be facetious. "

"I know. It was Stamford. No wonder you came so quickly."

"Sherlock," Lestrade approaches, looking worn out, "are you two coming in or what?"

Sherlock ignores him entirely and continues glaring at John. "I bet you were having a riveting time discussing his wife's foot disease."

"I'd prefer to talk about her foot disease than be a part of your social disorder."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Then, out of curiosity, why did you come then? In case you weren't aware, masochism is also a personality disorder."

"Says the man who hasn't eaten in three days."

"Boys -" Lestrade attempts to interrupt, but Sherlock raises a hand to cover the detective inspector's face.

"Yes, well, whose fault is that?"

Lestrade swears and leaves them to it, walking back to the police car.

"Are you seriously suggesting I am responsible for your not eating?" John demands. "I'm not your keeper, Sherlock."

Sherlock smirks. "Don't pretend that's not what you'd like to be."

"You are unbelievable! I don't know why I bother!"

"Because you love me."

"I thought you don't believe in love," John hisses back.

"I never said that."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't. If you can manage to cast your tiny brain back, what were actually discussing three days ago was the chemical basis for sexual and emotional arousal."

"Ah, yes! The chemicals! How could I forget?"

"Because you have the intellect of a three year-old."

"And you have the emotional understanding of a three year-old," John bites back.

"I know which one I'd prefer."

"Yes," John says, nodding angrily, "and that is exactly your problem."

"I don't have a 'problem'," Sherlock spits.

"Oh no? Been functioning well over the last couple of days, have you?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes and John wonders if he's actually made a valid point. He also is suddenly more aware that there are actually several members of the police force nearby, who are no doubt listening to the argument with pleasure. John attempts to discern how much of their conversation thus far would come across as homoerotic. He also wonders how much he really cares.

"Ok, fine, I'm sorry." Sherlock suddenly says, coughing the words out as if he wants them to go unnoticed.

John pauses then says, with suspicion in his voice, "Really? For what?"

"For not agreeing with your definition of love."

It's not really clear if this is a real apology or another way of Sherlock proving he is right. John isn't taking any chances. But there's something fierce and sincere in Sherlock's eyes that makes John feel as though he is gripped by the collar and forced against a wall.

"But don't you see that it's so much better if it's not some intangible, woolly notion?" Sherlock breathes. "You make me produce chemicals, John! My desire to have them in my blood stream makes me feel I can't function without you. I've never been addicted to any drug like I am addicted to you. You make me feel better."

Definitely homoerotic.

There's no escaping it now.

But suddenly, and just like that, John isn't mad anymore. Not in the slightest. "You could have written that in one of your love letters," he comments. There's a small debate internally as to the best course of action but he quickly settles on kissing Sherlock. He takes one of the detective's dry, slender hands and smiles up into those clear grey eyes.

Sherlock seems to physically relax, allowing his fingers to curl around John's as the doctor reaches up towards his lips.

The rush feels almost like the first time. Is it possible that in three days John could have forgotten quite how wonderful kissing Sherlock is?

"Fucking hell! Really?" John hears Lestrade saying somewhere behind them. "How did I not see that coming?"

John doesn't care. His whole body is on fire.

As their lips part, Sherlock murmurs, "God, I missed that."

"Yeah. …Yeah."

Later that night, Sherlock resumes his examination of John's hair follicles and which stimuli will generate goose bumps, or piloerection as he insists on calling it. The soft down of his stomach is the current area of interest and John has to concentrate very hard on not feeling ticklish as Sherlock slips his tongue across his navel.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

John clears his throat then goes for it. "I hope you never try to give me up."

"Are we still talking in the John is a drug metaphor here?" Sherlock clarifies, looking up with a gorgeous smile.

John nods.

Sherlock wriggles up the bed and lightly kisses the skin next to John's ear. Then he whispers, "John, if it is acceptable, I intend to go on a bender."

John chuckles and strokes his hand through Sherlock's lovely hair. Sherlock burrows his head into the doctors neck and gently nips the skin between his lips, making John shiver.

"Good?" Sherlock whispers.

"Good."

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The End