This last chapter carries a severe angst warning. Again I have used bits of the S2E3 dialogue, twisted it to fit the story.
Thanks to Mapleleafcameo, Ennui Enigma, hjohn302, patemalah21, hummingbird1759, Dark Moons and Whispered Words, Banbi-V, Aimee's Stories, Innenlebenaussenwelt, DuShuZhi, ruvy91, Daffidill, TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot, JR Granger and if I've missed anyone please forgive me.
Disclaimer: Same as ever
Last note: Text in
bold italics shows the thoughts of the two men.

John lay in bed, one hand tucked under his head, staring up, watching the movement of cloud over the moon, projected through the open curtains onto the ceiling. His other arm was draped across the shoulders of the man curled around him, sleeping, his head resting on John's chest.

There was something – John was not quite sure what it was – but it was nagging at his brain, at his heart, and for a while he had managed to convince himself that it was a just a memory, a throwback to the laboratory at Baskerville, and to the noxious gasses being leaked to such devastating effect into Dewar's Hollow. Now though, he was less certain, his mind raced. It was the fear again, the fear he had felt trapped in that cage; the fear he hadn't admitted to when the hound appeared at the top of the hollow; the fear….

"John, whatever it is, try to forget about it and get some sleep."

The blond doctor didn't respond, he just tightened his arm about his lover's shoulders, his other hand moving down to tangle itself into the soft dark curls that tickled against his skin. Closing his eyes he attempted to deepen his breathing, to ease the tension that was keeping him awake. Under his hand, the curly head moved.

"What's wrong?"

John opened his eyes and looked down. Soft grey eyes were staring back at him, concern clear in their expression.

"It's nothing, Sherlock, go back to sleep"

"It's obviously not nothing, John, because when you started thinking about what ever this is that has upset you, your heart rate increased significantly enough to wake me up."

"Really?" a smile lifted John's features momentarily.

"Like a drum!" Sherlock was pleased to see the smile, but knew there was something worrying the man lying wrapped in his arms. He looked at him and waited.

John's arm tightened again, and there was a kind of desperation in the movement that was starting to cause the consulting detective a great deal of concern.

Dropping his head slightly, he pressed a kiss against the warm skin beneath him, then followed it with a series of kisses that worked up from chest to neck, via the scarred shoulder, until he hovered over John, looking down into those deep, deep blue eyes. He was shocked to see tears glistening, making those lovely eyes unnaturally bright.

"John?"

A shaking hand raised and cupped his face, stroking his cheek, the tear-bright blue eyes holding his moonlit grey ones.

"Sherlock, I…I'm afraid."

Sherlock wasn't sure what he had been expecting John to say, but it certainly wasn't that! His mouth opened several times, but closed again, not find the right words to reassure.

A small sigh ghosted warm breath across his cheek, as John turned his head to look away.

"I know it's stupid…."

"No" Sherlock was used to trusting John's feelings, his instincts. "John, whatever it is that's bothering you, it's unlikely to be stupid." He hooked two fingers under John's chin and pulled his head back round, looking him in the eye again. "Care to share?"

Instead of speaking, the doctor reached up and drew Sherlock down for a kiss, and the detective felt that echo of desperation once more, before the kiss deepened, and coherent thought faded into the distance.

oOo

Sherlock surreptitiously watched as John pottered around the kitchen, making breakfast. In the aftermath of frantic lovemaking John had finally slept, a fitful and dream-filled sleep, from which he had woken several hours later, bleary eyed and unrefreshed.

His eyes followed John as he carried the two mugs of tea in one hand, two plates of toast in the other, depositing the victuals on the coffee table and sitting tiredly beside him.

"Eat, Sherlock"

"I'll eat," Sherlock countered, "if you'll tell me what's troubling you."

John turned tired eyes on the man beside him, a slight tremor in the hand that held his mug of tea, and drawing a deep breath he shook his head.

Sherlock frowned, not used to such reticence.

"Look" John sighed, dropping his gaze to his lap "just give me a minute, will you? Please? Eat your breakfast"

For a long few moments, the only sound in the flat was the crunch of toast being eaten, of tea being sipped.

"I can't shift the feeling that this is all too good to be true!" John blurted out suddenly, looking helplessly at Sherlock. "Don't ask me why," he added, forestalling the question he saw in the other's eyes. "All I know is that no-one's luck can hold out this long…"

"It's not luck, John."

"Good fortune then – whatever you choose to call it, I can't help but feel that sooner or later something will go horribly wrong, and this" he gestured towards the pile of case files on the table, and his laptop open and displaying his blog "all this will be lost."

Sherlock reached out a hand and gently stroked through John's shower-damp hair.

"You're tired, John, and blowing things all out of proportion. Maybe you should go back to bed, get a few hours' sleep" he smiled softly and rose to his feet, pulling John up with him and turning him towards their bedroom. Placing his hands on the smaller man's shoulders he guided him down the hallway and through the bedroom door. Once inside, he swiftly helped remove clothing (trying not to give into the urge the join the other man under the duvet –no, that wouldn't be restful for him, not restful at all!) and tenderly covered him up.

"What will you do?" sleep coloured John's voice, making him sound wistful and almost childlike.

"I have some experiments to complete."

"Don't blow up the flat."

Smiling, Sherlock leaned down a dropped a gentle kiss on John's forehead. At the door he turned back to see John already asleep, curled up on his side and clutching Sherlock's pillow, his nose buried in it, inhaling his lover's scent as he slept.

oOo

"Boffin! Boffin Sherlock Holmes" his voice heavily laced with disgust, Sherlock threw the copy of the Daily Star onto the coffee table.

"Everyone gets one"

"One what?"

John glanced up at him.

"A nickname; you know, Su-Bo, Nasty Nick. Shouldn't worry, I'll probably get one soon."

"Page five, column six, first line"

Turning to the relevant page, John scanned down the lines until

"Bachelor John Watson? Bachelor? What the hell…..?"

"Would you rather they referred to you as my lover?" As yet no-one except Mycroft was aware of the change in their relationship, despite the insinuations made on a daily basis at the Yard, and they had tried to ensure it stayed that way.

John stood up, his face serious as he walked over to the fireplace and looked into Sherlock's eyes.

"If it would make them leave you alone, then they could call me what they liked, but they won't will they? Won't leave you alone." He manoeuvred the consulting detective round into his chair, and knelt between his legs, his forearms resting on the other man's thighs. "You're close to becoming a celebrity now, you're this far" he held up his thumb and forefinger, showing a gap between the two of less than an inch "from famous, and if we aren't careful, they'll turn on you."

"Who will?" Sherlock captured John's hand and held it, rubbing his thumb across the back of it, absently noting how well the other man cared for his hands – the tools of his trade – despite the calluses on his fingers.

"The press, Sherlock. They always turn, and they'll turn on you."

"It really bothers you"

"What?"

"What people say"

"Yes"

"About me? I don't understand – why would it upset you?"

John stared at him, trying to read his face. Was he joking? If he was it was in poor taste. But no, he really was oblivious.

"I'm upset because I love you, you thick git! When they attack you, they attack me – hurt you, and they get two for the price of one – do you really not know that?"

"I know that you love me, John"

"Then please, if not for your own sake then for me, just…just stay out of the spotlight for a bit, keep a low profile and let it die down. Find yourself a little case this week, stay out of the news."

oOo

John thought back to that conversation as he sat in the gallery of the Old Bailey, watching Sherlock do the exact opposite of everything he had advised – don't try to be clever, keep it simple and brief – no, he couldn't do that! And instead of giving 'smart-arse' a wide berth he jumped in there, all sparkling intelligence and no common sense. He watched in dismay as the consulting detective was held to be in contempt of court, and taken down to the cells.

When the session was adjourned for the day, Sherlock was allowed out of the cells, with a stern warning not to return to the courts while this case was being heard. As he signed for his personal belongings John couldn't hold back – he was quietly furious.

"I said 'Don't get clever' and what do you do? Wind up in the cells for contempt! You just couldn't leave it alone, could you?"

"I can't just turn it on and off…"

"You can shut up occasionally!"

"Yes" Sherlock smirked as together they walked out of the building "but I don't think they'd appreciate us…"

"Sherlock!"

Hailing a cab, Sherlock opened the door and stepped back to allow John to get in first – only the most observant of people would have noticed the hand that brushed John's bum as he climbed in.

"Now," he continued as if nothing had happened "you were there from start to finish, tell me." And he sat back and received what was almost a verbatim report of the proceedings, so accurate that by the time they reached the flat he knew everything that had happened during the first day of the trial.

As John set about making tea, Sherlock sat, silently considering the case so far. He ignored the outstretched hand and mug of hot, strong tea; he didn't respond to John's words as if he hadn't heard them, and eventually the older man gave up trying to communicate, and retreated into his own world of worry.

That world of worry grew larger the next day as, to the dismay of all concerned – and to the justified surprise of the Defence Barrister in particular – James Moriarty was found not guilty. Hurrying from the Court, John phoned Sherlock.

"Not Guilty! They found him Not Guilty – he orchestrates a break in at the Tower of London, another at the Bank of England, and arranges for all the locks in Pentonville Prison to open at the same time, offers no defence, and Moriarty walks free!"

There was no response from the man at the other end of the phone, but as he lowered his hand he could still hear John's voice warning him, telling him that Moriarty would be coming after him….and he cut the call.

And Moriarty came. He arrived shortly after the call, walking into the flat as if he owned it, sitting in Sherlock's chair and drinking tea as if this were a civilised social visit. He sat carving at an apple with a penknife and boasting about how he could open any door in the world with just a few lines of computer code, on and on he rattled until finally he admitted it, the real reason for all of his clever antics.

"You don't want money, or power" Sherlock observed "so what is it all for?"

"I want to solve the problem. Our problem; the final problem" Moriarty almost whispered, his voice was so soft. "It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock; the fall….but don't be scared, falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination."

"I never liked riddles" Sherlock replied, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket.

Moriarty stood too, and leaving the apple with the penknife still stuck in it on the arm of the chair, stared up into Sherlock's eyes.

"Learn to," he hissed "because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I…Owe…You"

When he was gone, Sherlock picked up the apple, turning it slowly around in his hand. Moriarty had carved three letters into the piece of fruit…I O U.

oOo

Lying face down in the middle of their bed, and clad in nothing but a pair of lightweight jersey pyjama bottoms, John let himself relax into the rhythmic motions of Sherlock's hands massaging his shoulders, easing out the knots in the muscles, gently working around the scar of the entry wound and moving outwards to work on his deltoids, and down slightly to run his hands over the well-defined triceps before moving back up and inwards to the shoulders once more.

Straddling John's hips, Sherlock let his mind wander slightly as he worked at the tight, tension filled muscles. He may never have had any medical training, but he knew he could name every muscle he worked on – deltoid, trapezius, latissimus dorsi – name it, and feel it react to his touch. He smiled and started to move downwards. A sigh escaped from the man beneath his hands as he swept his fingers firmly down his sides, moving inwards and upwards before repeating the movement.

"Good?"

"Mmmmm"

He shifted over, so that he was kneeling beside John, his oiled hands still sweeping across muscles that were rapidly relaxing at his touch. On the next downward sweep he allowed his fingers to slide under the waistband of John's pyjamas, to sweep across the smooth skin as his mind registered – gluteus maximus – and instantly his partners sigh became a growl. Sherlock felt his body react to the sound, instantly and almost painfully, but he continued with his slow strokes.

"I hope you know what you're doing" John's voice was ragged with desire

Sherlock stretched himself out, his hand still tracing circular movements that took his fingers in and out of that waistband, his lips were almost touching John's ear.

"Oh yes" the voice was velvet soft, warm breath coating sensitive skin.

In one swift, fluid motion John flipped himself over, pulling Sherlock down on top of him and wrapping his arms around him, his hands splaying across the pale, well-muscled back.

Lips met, tongues joined in a sensual dance, hands and arms and legs tangled together. It seemed they would devour each other with nips and licks and biting kisses. What little clothing they had been wearing was quickly discarded, and their movements slowed, became more focused. Finally John entered Sherlock with slow, rocking thrusts, increasing in pressure, in intensity, until their sweat-slicked bodies were pressed so close together it was hard to tell where one man ended and the other began.

Still glowing in the aftermath of enjoyed consensual pleasure, John pulled his trousers back on, and adding a dressing gown wandered down to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and some take-away menus. Sliding up behind him Sherlock slipped his arms around his waist, and stood with his chin resting on the other man's head.

"Angelo's? We could walk there, have a meal…"

"No, let's not. I don't want to share you with anyone tonight"

Sherlock caught the echo of something in John's voice, but when the other man turned round and gave him the sweetest smile, he lost the thread – whatever it was, it could wait.

oOo

Mycroft watched as John walked out of the Diogenes Club, hoping that the ex-army doctor would manage to convince his flatmate that he really should take the threat of these four professional killers seriously. He turned and looked out of the window, following the progress of the blond haired man from front steps to car, and watched him being driven away. Returning to his chair he picked up one of the folders and stared unseeing at the photograph inside.

Meanwhile, as he climbed the stairs to the flat, John was trying to figure out what was so interesting about Baker Street, that suddenly they were surrounded by paid killers. He didn't have the chance to talk it over with Sherlock, however, because as he entered the living room he realised they had company.

"Kidnapping" Sherlock informed him, in answer to his question. He sat down in front of his laptop and started typing.

"Rufus Bruhl, ambassador to the US" Lestrade added.

"He's in Washington, isn't he?"

"Not him, John, his children. Max and Claudette, aged seven and nine"

John looked at the photograph Sally Donovan held out towards him.

"The kids have vanished" she said "from their posh boarding school in Surrey"

"And the Ambassador's asked for you two personally" Lestrade added, as Sherlock leapt to his feet and grabbing his coat headed out of the door.

At the school, despite being asked to handle her sensitively, Sherlock launched into an accusation of incompetence, then demanded immediate answers – it may have been unethical, but it worked, and they had a picture of the children's last night at the school.

They checked the girl's room first, but there was nothing helpful there. The boy's room however was much more promising. He was an avid reader of spy books, from which Sherlock deduced that he would have been savvy enough to leave them clues. The clues came in the form of a message written in linseed oil, and more oil on the floor through which the boy and his kidnapper had tracked, leaving footprints that glowed under Anderson's ultraviolet light. When the trail stopped suddenly, all the police forensics officers returned to the boy's room, but Sherlock collected a scraping of one of the kidnapper's linseed oil footprints.

Taking his findings to St Bart's, Sherlock bullied Molly into helping him, and as she stood beside him, her eyes flicked between him and John.

"You're like my Dad," she said finally, "He's dead"

Raising an eyebrow Sherlock didn't look away from the microscope.

"Molly please, don't feel the need to make conversation, it's not your area"

His tone, though soft, was loaded with sarcasm, and she cringed but bravely went on

"When he was dying, he was always cheerful. He was lovely. Except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once, he looked sad."

"Molly" There was a hint of warning in the voice.

"You look sad" her eyes flicked once more towards John, sitting on the far side of the room reading through some papers. "When you think he can't see you."

Sherlock looked up momentarily, and followed her gaze, then looked back at the young woman standing beside him.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly.

He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could make a sound she interrupted him.

"And don't just say that you are, 'cause I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you"

"You can see me"

"I don't count!" With a sad smile Molly walked away, past John and out of the room.

John, still unaware of the conversation, carried one of the police crime scene photos over to the bench where Sherlock was working.

"Sherlock, you see this envelope? The seal on it?"

"What? Oh, yes, the one that had a copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales in it?"

"There's another one. I found it on our doorstep today"

The consulting detective looked closely at the envelope, its seal and its contents. Breadcrumbs.

"Breadcrumbs, fairy tales," his eyes widened.

"Clues? What sort of kidnapper leaves clues?"

"Moriarty" Sherlock turned his head to look at the older man. "The final problem" he whispered. It had been two months since that meeting but he remembered not only the problem but the promise – Moriarty promised him a fall, and now he realised what that echo was he'd felt before, it was fear.

oOo

Donovan and Anderson had stood opposite Lestrade, eloquent in their condemnation of Sherlock Holmes. In the hopes of dealing with this quietly, he made the journey to 221B, but with his usual arrogance the young man refused to come along to the Yard to discuss it.

Frustrated, he retreated to his car, looking back up at the window, his eyes meeting John's as he climbed in next to Donovan.

"They'll be deciding" Sherlock commented as he heard the car start up

"Deciding?"

"Whether or not to come back with a warrant and arrest me"

"You should've gone with him" John looked unhappily down at his lover "People'll think…"

"I don't care what people think"

"You'd care, my love, if they thought you were stupid, or wrong"

"That would just make them stupid or wrong"

John could feel the anger building up within him.

"Sherlock, I don't want the world believing…." He stopped as Sherlock's eyes met his.

"That I am what?"

John swallowed

"A fraud"

"You're worried. You're worried they're right about me."

"No"

"That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right." He sat back in his chair and folded his arms, continuing softly "You're afraid that you've been taken in as well"

Looking out of the window once more, John answered equally softly "No I'm not"

"Moriarty's playing with your mind too" Sherlock leaned forward and slammed his hand on the table angrily "Can't you see what's going on?"

"No, Sherlock I know you – I know you're for real" he walked across and stood looking down into stormy grey eyes. Suddenly he smiled. "No one could fake being such an annoying dick all the time!"

oOo

The more he sat there reading through Kitty Riley's file, her notes on Richard Brook, the more pieces of the puzzles fell into place, and the angrier he became. He heard the door open, footsteps across the room, the barely contained gasp of surprise as the newcomer realised he was sitting there.

"There are things in Miss Riley's research that only someone close to Sherlock could have told her"

"John…."

"So, Mycroft, how does it work? Your relationship with Moriarty; exchanging confidences over coffee? Because, if you weren't aware there are only two people in your brother's life, and she didn't get this from me!"

"We interrogated him for weeks, he wouldn't crack"

"And?"

"I could get him to talk, just a little, but…"

"In exchange for Sherlock's life story."

Mycroft nodded unhappily.

"Moriarty wanted Sherlock dead, right? You knew that? And you have given him the perfect ammunition."

"John…I'm sorry"

"Oh, please…." John was furious. He got to his feet and headed for the door.

There was an edge of uncertainty that didn't sit well in Mycroft's voice as he looked at John's retreating back.

"Tell him, would you?"

John just carried on walking, not even bothering to close the door after him. As he left the building his phone chirped and he looked at the text. A small smile graced his tired features – he should have known Sherlock would have headed for his home-from-home….St Bart's.

oOo

It had been a long night, John had finally dozed off, his head on his folded arms, hunched over the bench. Sherlock watched him, his mind racing, painfully aware that the next few hours would require every ounce of his brain power and courage, and equally aware that if the worse happens, John may never forgive him his betrayal of trust.

The shrill ringing of a phone woke the sleeping doctor and he wearily picked it up. Suddenly he was sitting bolt upright, wide awake.

"What? What happened? Is she okay?" he listened to the voice on the phone, then "Oh my God! Right, yes, I'm coming"

Sherlock looked at him.

"What is it?"

"Paramedics. Mrs, Hudson, she's been shot!"

"What? How?"

"Probably one of those killers you managed to attract….Jesus. Jesus, she dying, Sherlock, let's go"

"You go….I'm busy"

"Busy?" John stopped mid-stride, turning back to stare in disbelief at the other man.

"Thinking, I need to think"

"Sherlock! You half killed a man once for laying a finger on her…"

"She's our landlady" Sherlock shrugged almost nonchalantly

"She's dying…" John couldn't control the anger boiling up inside him. "You…you machine! Sod this! You stay here if want, on your own…"

"Alone is what I have," Sherlock replied, distantly "Alone protects me"

"No, Sherlock, friends protect people."

oOo

On the rooftop of St Bart's, Sherlock looked down at the dead body of Jim Moriarty. This wasn't what he had planned, this wasn't how it was supposed to be. Swallowing hard, he backed away, and slowly, his feet reluctant to obey his brain, he climbed up onto the ledge and looked down.

To his horror he saw John getting out of a cab – no! This shouldn't have happened, it was all going wrong! John should have been safe away from here. Reaching into his pocket he hit speed-dial on his mobile, watching as John paused to remove his phone from his pocket. He needed to think quickly – the worst thing John could do now is come up here, Sherlock feared that his lover would do something stupid. On the other hand, he knew it would all but kill John to watch what he was planning to do next…

"Hello?"

"John"

"Hi Sherlock, you okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came"

"No, I'm coming in"

"Just do as I ask, please!"

'Please John…'

"Where?"

"Stop there"

"Sherlock"

"Okay look up, I'm on the rooftop."

"Oh God!"

"I….I….I can't come down so, we'll…we'll just have to do it like this"

'What the...Sherlock! No...no, no, no!'

"What's going on?"

"An apology" Sherlock paused "It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they said about me – I invented Moriarty"

"Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake!"

"Sherlock….."

'Sherlock I know you're no fake'

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly – in fact tell anyone who will listen to you" – pause – "that I created Moriarty for my own purposes!"

'John, please…understand…'

"Okay, shut up Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, the first time we met you knew all about my sister right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could!"

Sherlock gave a little choked laugh – paused, then sniffed. Tears stained his pale cheeks, dried there by the wind that danced around the rooftops, oblivious to the drama unfolding in its playground.

"I researched you – before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you. It's a trick, just a magic trick"

"No. Alright stop it now!"

'That's it! I'm coming up there – you can't do this, Sherlock…You can't jump. Oh God please let me get up to you in time….'

"No stay exactly where you are – don't move"

"Alright"

Standing on the roof, Sherlock took several rapid deep breaths

"Keep your eyes fixed on me…please will you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

'Sherlock, please tell me you're not going to…'

"This phone call it's er, it's my note. 'S what people do don't they, leave a note?"

'Stop this Sherlock, let me help you…'

"Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye John"

'I love you, John. Please forgive me'

'Not goodbye, Sherlock. I love you. Jesus Christ not goodbye!'

"No….don't….."

Sherlock threw down his phone, spread his arms and, ever graceful, fell forwards.

"Sherlock!...Sherlock"

oOo

He stood back from the gravestone, his eyes blurred with tears, his voice choked as he spoke to the dead man lying in the cold earth at his feet.

"I was so alone…and I owe you so much.."

'And I never really told you how much I love you…'

When, finally, he finished speaking, he stood to attention, nodding a brief salute before turning and walking away, ramrod stiff and head held high. He would not break down here, now. And every movement was watched, catalogued as best the blurred vision of those soft grey eyes could manage, as the tall man in the Belstaff followed his progress out of the churchyard, watching until he was out of sight. 'Be safe, my John, live for me'