Author's note: final chapter! Thanks for reading, and any feedback is, as always, very much appreciated.

Just past the train carriage which was actually a bomb meant to blow up Parliament, Sherlock was doubled-over, handkerchief pressed to his nose. Getting head-butted in the face hurt, yes. But then getting punched in the nose only a few days later hurt even worse.

"It had only begun to heal, John!" the detective bellowed, though he knew it was muffled due to his current position.

Not that John hadn't had reason to punch him. Again.

I always hear "Punch me in the face" when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext.

Earlier That Night

The carriage itself was the bomb, and he and John were standing in the middle of it. They'd been in many dangerous situations together, but Sherlock could say for certainty that this was a first. Possibly a last, too, if he couldn't find the off-switch. He hoped these were the cautious types of terrorists, the ones who knew bombs needed a fail-safe just in case a plan had to be aborted.

Sherlock hadn't planned it, but once it was discovered that the carriage was the bomb, he quickly realized that he could foil the plot and properly apologize to John in a situation where the doctor would have no choice but to listen. Killing two birds with one stone, as it were…or maybe "killing" wasn't the best verb given the circumstances. Though there was nothing else you could do with two birds and a stone, so perhaps the whole analogy was inappropriate when standing inside a train carriage filled with explosives.

Sherlock was going to save the world twice. That was the whole of it.

Step one: save London. This was the easy part.

While John's calm demeanor slowly transitioned from anger to rising panic, the World's Only Consulting Detective faked knowing nothing about bombs and lied about calling the police (secretly, he hoped they held off long enough to give him time). He flailed about the main device, finally locating the off switch. Grinning briefly, out of sight from John, he shut it off. The time stopped at 1:29.

One-in-twenty-nine. Sherlock hoped the odds for the next bit were better than that.

Step two: save himself. Potentially much more risky.

In order to properly convince John he needed to listen, especially given the (presumed) circumstances, Sherlock knew he would have to rely on emotions, which meant acting. Though he'd done this routine in front of John before, so he could only hope his friend wouldn't notice.

Sherlock looked up at John from his place on the floor. "I'm sorry," he murmured, slowly working himself into tears. "I can't do it, John. I don't know how." He took a breath. "Forgive me?"

From across the carriage, John looked on in shock. "What?"

Becoming more emotional, Sherlock clasped his hands together, almost begging. "Please, John, forgive me. For all the hurt I have caused you…"

John shook his head furiously, refusing to believe, claiming it to all be a trick. Sherlock wasn't sure if it was denial about being in the situation, not wanting to accept imminent death, or because John truly didn't trust his (ex?) friend any longer. Sherlock hoped it was the former; the latter was too hard to handle.

"You're just trying to make me say something nice," John choked out. "It's just to make you look good, even though you behaved like—"

His voice cut off and he turned away. This time, Sherlock recognized the pain in his friend's face, and felt the ache in his chest in response. He moved away from the (secretly) disabled bomb and sat in the nearby seat, giving John time to compose himself while trying to keep a reign on his own demeanor. Because what was odd, Sherlock thought, was how natural this all felt, not like an act at all. Usually emotion in his acting was forced, but with no real feeling on his part. He could conjure up tears at will to trick and manipulate people. This time, he didn't feel he was trying very hard at all. His physical reactions were aligning with his mental and (dare he even admit it) emotional state.

It was uncomfortable, this honesty, but it also seemed to be working.

"I find it difficult," John was saying now, his voice rough. "I find it difficult, this sort of stuff. You were the best and wisest man that I have ever known. Yes, of course I forgive you," John concluded firmly. And with that, he closed his eyes and stood firm.

Sherlock leaned forward, tears spilling effortlessly from his eyes. His head ducked, he smiled, then choked out a soft laugh (sounding suspiciously like a sob) in relief. It was fine. It was all going to be fine. He started to laugh a little louder, a little more frantically, and soon John had opened his eyes, likely either assuming the train had transported the both of them to the same afterlife, or realizing that they were still stuck together on earth.

Sherlock had tried to stop laughing long enough to explain, while John swore at him repeatedly.

"There's an off switch! There's always an off switch!"

And for a moment, everything was as it used to be.

Then they had exited the carriage, passed the police, with Sherlock feeling better than he had in a long time (years, if he were being truthful, and it was a night for that, apparently). He had turned to share this with John, and found his face connecting with John's fist. Then he'd been doubled over, handkerchief to nose, moaning.

"I said I was sorry!" he cried. "For everything! I meant that part."

In lieu of a response, he felt John crash into him from the side, so forcefully that they both almost lost their balance. Sherlock tensed, preparing for another physical altercation, until he realized John was hugging him. Tightly and uncomfortably and awkwardly, given their positioning.

Sherlock's arms were trapped against his face, so he couldn't return the hug even if he wanted to. Which, oddly, he thought he might. John Watson was officially added to the list of "People Whose Touch was Tolerated," along with Mummy and Mrs. Hudson (even if John's touch sometimes included "bleeding" as a side effect). Wonders never ceased.

"I am still so angry at you," John growled, his face pressed against Sherlock's shoulder. "I bloody hate you for what you did."

"I know," he replied, his voice thick from the nose injury. "I am so sorry, John."

John tightened his grip somehow. "And I am so, so fucking glad you are alive."

With that, John shoved Sherlock away, meeting his gaze once they were apart. The older man's face was trying to remain how it'd looked since Sherlock's return. Hard and distant. But the façade was cracking, now, and Sherlock could see his old friend underneath.

Sherlock grinned and straightened up. "Let's get home," he said. He knew the word meant a different place for both men. But with things righted between them, Baker Street would feel more comfortable, even in the new silence. More like home.

As they left the tunnel, Sherlock reflected on the night. Apologizing to your friend in public by surprising him? Bit not good. Apologizing to your friend alone by letting him think he was going to die? Effective.

Sherlock would have to file that knowledge away in the Mind Palace. He didn't understand why it worked, not really. But after all, that was John's department.