Hello, once again, Sherlockians! Here is my next chapter. It's more of an action-oriented piece than the previous ones. Finally, Sherlock and John have their day. Vengeance abounds!

There will be one more smaller chapter after this, more of an epilogue, if you will. Then I will be moving on to other Sherlockian fanfics to help cure me of this dreadful Post-Reichenbach Distress Syndrome.

As always, I do not own Sherlock in any way. The BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss do a brilliant enough job without my intrusion. Although that doesn't mean I won't beg profusely to be present on the set for Series 3...

Please review! Your opinion is much appreciated!

Chapter 9: Wherever You Will Go

If a great wave shall fall

And fall upon us all

Well then I hope there's someone out there

Who can bring me back to you

If I could, then I would

I'll go wherever you will go

Way up high or down low

I'll go wherever you will go

-"Wherever You Will Go," The Call


"Ready?" The smooth voice of Sherlock Holmes, free of fear and oddly comforting, flowed with a puff of air to the cold-bitten ears of his flatmate and best friend.

John Watson's response was charged with excited determination, given without hesitation. "More than ever."

The deep sky of night shrouded the outskirts of London, rewarding the two colleagues with greater protection and stealth whilst they crept from behind the cover of a decrepit garage and galloped headlong across a deserted street, the taller man's long dark overcoat billowing about his legs like the cloak of an errant knight and the smaller one jostling a little behind with the confident march of a soldier.

A pock in the road appeared just ahead of them and Sherlock leaped over it with lithe grace. Unfortunately, John was clumsier as he followed, his landing forcing his teeth to grit from the pain in his knees which still ached from his collision with the pavement during his latest near-death experience involving a Rolls only two days before. Ever since then, he and Sherlock had holed themselves up in Molly's charming cottage after their long-awaited reconciliation, planning their final confrontation with Moriarty's web of criminals—when they weren't imitating pirates, irritating the young pathologist, or laughing over tea, that is.

Since the streetlamps had long been neglected, they were guided by nothing more than the sprinklings of stars overhead as they made their hastened way to an abandoned hotel which, despite its large filthy "For Sale" notice and faded placard displaying the hotel's name, looked suspiciously kept-up. Beforehand, Sherlock had glanced up at those clouds of galaxies that glowed dully overhead as they amassed and coalesced into beautiful swirls and colors. Colors! Who knew that stars had colors? Blue, green, yellow, faint orange…He never saw such a thing before considering he rarely ventured far from the reach of central London's light pollution, and never cared about it before either. Yet, he appreciated their beauty now, knowing he might never return alive again to 221 B Baker Street. Then he wondered idly what their names were, the constellations, and what significance they pertained to in the grand scheme of things since he had deleted that from his mind's hard drive some time ago. But, of course, that kind of data was useless in the cases he took, especially this one…well, almost all. Perhaps, John knew what the tiny suns were called, as any army man would. It would be useless to ask. Still…

Their lungs were gasping at the chill air and their legs burning from the effort of their speed when they rounded the rear entrance of the beige-bricked building and slipped into a rubbish-strewn side alley where the fire escape was hidden in the deeper part of the shadows. Without the slightest falter, Sherlock bounded onto a Dumpster that smelled like vomit and rotting remains and hopped straight up to grab the bottom rung of the fire escape ladder, promptly pulling it down towards his thin torso and mounting it. John replicated his actions, though with far less agility, and soon they were both racing up the rusty metal staircase and onto the hotel's roof.

Only three months prior, Sherlock had plummeted off the brink of a parapet not much different from this one, risking death and the solidity of his own intelligence in order to save the three people that mattered most to him. Moriarty's sadistic designs enforced that Sherlock would die by his fall. Instead, Sherlock was now climbing back up from that "fatal" climax on the pavement, as it were, to exterminate the consulting criminal's legacy once and for all. A sardonic smile played across Sherlock's angular features. The irony of the situation was not lost on him, at least.

The detective and his doctor slithered through the rooftop doorway and quietly descended a concrete stairwell, coming to rest beside the access door marked with "Level 2" painted in gold cursive beside the doorknob.

"The majority of the guards will soon be relieved for the late-night shift, leaving only three rather more experienced mercenaries remaining to contend with. We have ten minutes at most before we are at liberty to make a move," Sherlock predicted in a discreet tone, lifting his arm and pulling back his sleeve so he could check his watch. "For now, we wait."

John took a moment to catch his breath. He leaned against the wall beside the gaudy crimson entryway, evaluating what Sherlock had just said and what it implicated. "You-You've been here before then." It wasn't a question.

"Obviously," Sherlock responded with only mild annoyance.

Brow bent with skepticism, John refused to let it go. "Well…how did you, exactly? I thought you were hiding out at Molly's so no one could recognize you…Wouldn't someone have seen you? Or at least one of Moriarty's"

"Oh, John, have you learned nothing?" Sherlock interrupted, voice clipped with full-blown aggravation now. "The key to true disguise is hiding in plain sight and Molly's leftover collection of failed relationships ensured me of that. People are too stupid to look more closely at the world around them. They'd be amazed if they truly knew the secrets people keep and tell so easily, unintentionally and without words."

The ex-soldier snorted. "Yeah, I know. You've told me enough times."

"Perhaps you should listen."

John affectionately shook his head.

The fluorescent light above their heads blinked on and off a few times, fracturing their view of each other. Careful to keep his distance so as to avoid unfriendly notice, Sherlock spied through a small window in the door that peeked out into the hotel proper, his eyes riveted there as he flipped up the collar of his dark Belstaff coat, encasing his blue-striped scarf and long pale neck with the expensive wool material. Trying to look cool, John knew. Consequently, a grin began to spread over John's face and his heart lifted. It felt so good seeing the great Sherlock Holmes in his signature uniform again. Oh, it had been far too long, indeed.

Two minutes passed before Sherlock gave in to pacing, but still kept flashing his sight back onto that window every second, like a predator lying in wait for its prey. Nerves willing and iron-fisted, John's hands fluttered and fingered the Browning hidden in his waistband.

"Did you phone Lestrade?" Sherlock queried through the interim of silence.

"Yeah, called him and told him to be here in an hour, like you said."

"Which leaves us with fifteen minutes at most to get what we need out of him. Hopefully, it'll be enough."

John laughed under his breath.

Sherlock's head whipped toward the doctor, a frown of confusion marring his face. "What is it?"

"I'm pretty sure the sight of you alive and well will buy you some leniency from Greg."

"We'll see," Sherlock uttered in seriousness before a small smile tugged helplessly at his lips. The two men exchanged a knowing glance. Their lovable Detective Inspector would be surprised to say the least, and John was looking forward to seeing another person's reaction to the walking dead standing before him. After what John had been through of late, he was in desperate need of the amusement. He still couldn't fully believe that he had gotten his wish, that Sherlock had come back and he was on another of their thrilling adventures together after he thought he had lost everything for good. Even with Sherlock's arrogant surliness and rude jabs still as barbed as ever, John couldn't be happier to have his best mate back. But there was still something he had to say, something he realized he never had a chance to confess before it was too late, to the man himself and not to an empty burial plot and a black gravestone. Tonight may be the last stroke he had to speak openly to the detective, especially if their plans went south…

John's throat tightened and he tried clearing it, to no avail. Suddenly, he was gripped with an overwhelming sense of urgency, not to mention nervousness. The unfeeling, contrary sod wasn't going to like this. But it was now or never. "Sherlock, I, erm, I need to say something before we go through with this. I should have told you this a while ago, but you're not exactly an easy person to compliment…"

"Hmm?" His gaze refused to move away from the door, his absent-minded un-interest all too familiar to his flatmate. John's heart withered knowing that one syllable meant he wouldn't listen.

"Sherlock," John said more sternly, a little louder. His palm struck out, pressing the air, a gesture that was distinctly his, showing that he meant business. "Please."

Finally, the detective turned to John, knowing that tone just as well. It couldn't be avoided then.

Ignoring Sherlock's irritated sigh but heartened by the look in his eyes that had become strangely attentive, John stared up into those unearthly ice-blue orbs and unhinged both mouth and soul. "Before we crossed paths, I was alone for a long time. I had friends and family, but none of them seemed to…connect with me at all somehow, they didn't understand me or I them. Nothing seemed right. I was in a bad place even before the war. But then you came along. And it was like I had known you forever and I was just biding my time, surviving from one worthless breath to another until you paraded in with your…dramatic coat and cheekbones and narcissistic condescension," John rubbed his face and laughed once to himself. "We just sort of clicked, as different as we are. And I know you don't believe in heroes"—at this Sherlock's eyebrow's shot up—"but you saved me just like you saved all those people with bombs strapped to their bodies and guns pointed at their heads."

Sherlock rolled his eyes dismissively. "Oh, John, the melodramatic doesn't suit you…"

"No, Sherlock, listen, I mean it. I know all too well that you're not keen on hearing the sentimental rubbish. But I have to say this, not only have you given me what I needed, what made me feel useful and worthwhile with all the mysterious cases and chasing down bad guys but…but you've also given me the true kind of friendship that I've never had before, that actually means something. I can just…be myself and be accepted. And for that I owe your more than I could repay in two lives. You're the best man, the best friend I've ever known, and no matter what happens, you'll always be a hero to me. Everything has been and will be worth it because I believe in you. I would not be the same without you. And for that, I would follow wherever you lead, even to the mouth of hell." Pausing with a swallow, he took a deep breath to take a stab at steadying himself. "Look, all I'm saying is...thank you for being my friend. There. I've said my piece. I'm done now," he finished lamely with a shrug of feigned nonchalance.

Once the soft echo of John's heartfelt disclosure receded, silence prevailed. Stolidly, John bored his hazel eyes into the floor like he wanted to drill a hole into the tiles with them, a blush of sheer embarrassment coloring his cheeks. What had he just done? Fearing the revival of that soul-wrenching regret, John needed to expose all that the wretched man meant to him, he knew that. But it was bloody Sherlock Holmes! A reincarnated Spock who made cold indifference into a lifestyle. Emotions were like pebbles under his feet, not worth his time or notice. Not only that, but he also hated them when they were pelted into his face. He would be disgusted, John guessed. What was he going to say? Anything, nothing? The detective's loyal companion was used to his blunt mockery, he could handle that. But what if Sherlock dropped him, then and there? How could he go on? What was he thinking?!

It was quiet for far too long, it was beginning to grate on him. It had been too long, Sherlock should have said something by now. John couldn't bear it anymore, he had to know…

With deliberate slowness, John turned his eyes up to Sherlock's face. At first, John thought that frustrating expression of impassive observation was in its usual place, and perhaps it was, but it didn't last for long. For the smallest instant, the mask fell away. A sort of bleak, almost vulnerable melancholy shimmered across his angled face, like would a child's be when abandoned, but was overtaken by a tiny unassuming smile. It wasn't the one he used to ridicule or when he knew something that no one else even fathomed. No, it was so very different, even genuine. But most of all, it revealed a deep, fulfilling contentedness, in the world around him, in himself, that John had never seen in him before. Suddenly, he wondered whether Sherlock had ever felt that brand of happiness in his entire life. At last, John's words had gotten through to him, penetrated that steely composure and ghostly heart. Strangely, Sherlock's gladness was swiftly becoming his.

Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to make his reply, the sound of a car engine drawing near outside stopped him. They froze, their eyes instantly flicking to the stairs as though they could see through the walls to the street below, then they flew to each other's and stayed there briefly before Sherlock stepped up to the window again, a square of bright light from the hall making a halo around his pallid face which was now slightly flushed with tigerish anticipation. Was there even a hint of vengeance there? "That's likely them, by the pitch of the engine: Rolls-Royce, late model. Friend of yours," he joked darkly with a sidelong glance at the smaller man. "Have your gun ready."

With the complex and unmanly emotions of their exchange already draining away, forgotten in the sudden flood of adrenaline, John reached for the back of his trousers and unsheathed his gun whilst Sherlock yanked on his gloves and adjusted his coat, eyes still glued to the door. "Bring on the inner pirate, yeah?" On hearing this, Sherlock laughed lowly once.

John tightly gripped the Browning, the feel of it giving him confidence and strength, just like he always did in Afghanistan, during cases. But this time wasn't the same.

The criminals were on their way, the wankers who tried to smear him over a manhole like butter over bread, who aimed rifles at him from a distance, who helped Moriarty destroy Sherlock…A great wave of anger hit John squarely in the chest, dissipating any anxiety he had harbored about this reckless storming-of-the-castle. Recollections of the lengths he had to take to survive, the pain that he felt after Sherlock's fake death, all rose up and flashed across his mind one after the other. They were going to pay.

Muffled voices could be heard beyond the wall, coming closer. John's heartbeat heightened and his stomach clenched.

"Three seconds," Sherlock whispered as one leather-encased hand carefully pushed down on the door handle and the other splayed out onto the cold metal below the window. John counted the time out in his head until he ran down to one. Right after, Sherlock thrust the door outwards just as heads could be distinguished through the glass. As fast as a blender blade, the door swung out then stalled as if it had smacked something. John heard a guttural groan right before Sherlock charged into the light of the corridor, John right behind him, his gun held high.

Vaguely, John took note of the beige carpet with its swirl-designed borders and out-of-date wallpaper of the hotel's interior before he focused on the three men that were in front of them: one was crouching on the floor with hand to his bleeding face and the other using the wall for support, the other two were still up, untouched…still a threat. That was all John could register before the flurry of action ensued.

Both brown-haired and tall, the pair left in the battle toted pistols at their hips and assault weapons clinging by straps to their backs. But after they had recovered from their shock of Sherlock and John's invasion, their fingers were almost at the triggers. Guns were no good then. The last thing they were after was a standstill when their time was limited and their backup was delayed. So John immediately let his uplifted arm wielding the Browning to relax and simply followed Sherlock's lead which entailed colliding directly into their enemies. The doctor and the guard tumbled to the ground, John using the other as a landing pad before scuffling with him, his fists ready, willing, and experienced lunged out, targeting the softest parts of the body.

Sherlock, however, proved more elegant in his duel. The consulting detective twirled, knocking the criminal's gun out of his hand with his elbow before bowing to avoid the subsequent punch which enabled him face-to-face with his mark: the guard's legs. He swept his hand behind the idiotic man's knees with a karate chop then rose again as the criminal's limbs buckled and he sunk to the carpet with a hiss. After scooping up the assault rifle from where it fell, Sherlock bashed the side of the lackey's head with his own weapon, sealing his defeat. In the same moment, John rewarded the other with the same outcome using nothing but his hands and the acrimony that empowered them.

"John, get rid of them," Sherlock commanded, nodding curtly toward a nearby housemaid's closet. There was not a curl out of place on his head or a speck of dust on his classy threads even after that.

"My pleasure." And it was true. John was more than happy to obey, dragging the incapacitated criminals over to the narrow door and stuffed them in, treating them like ragdolls and without minding whether they were smashing into anything along the way. Pain and prison were the only future for these buggers now.

Then, as John shoved a heavy armchair over to the closet to ensure that they wouldn't escape or come back for more, Sherlock straightened his overcoat with a toss of his head and strutted over to the blonde guard that had felt the full brunt of their formidable entrance. He was still on the floor but, to his credit, he was trying to regain his feet regardless of his watering eyes, gushing nose, and probable cracked ribs. Sherlock directed his sleek new armament toward him and, upon seeing it, the lackey slumped in surrender.

Deduction, as perceptive and impeccable as ever, took over as Sherlock flicked his ethereal eyes up and down, side to side, and even straight through the miscreant and all he was and all that was wanting in him. The conclusion, after combining those despicable ambitions and shortcomings with his present pain and fear, was promising. Little persuasion would be required to attain their ends.

"Now," Sherlock lilted, his smug face daring for a challenge but promising mercilessness. "Take us to your employer, or we shall have no choice but to dispose of you like your pals there. At once, if you don't mind, we have much to discuss with him."

Not two minutes later of nudging the bleeding guard to his feet and practically carrying him down the three turns of the hallway to suite 200, they burst through the double doors with the gold filigree ornamenting its molding to find an expensively furnished room. Modern black and white armchairs and sofas were ordered fashionably across the large sitting area with a wide flat screen telly hanging on the adjacent wall. An expansive gold four-poster bed and a mahogany-and-marble kitchen that was well stocked with French wines and Italian delicacies could be seen in separate alcoves to the left from where they stood. Everything, in short, radiated with extravagance and screamed of money enough to burn. And in that ostentatious bed was the hard-won heir of the Moriarty Criminal Syndicate himself.

The pathetically stubby, squirrely man lolled his red-thatched head and blinked awake once he heard his door slam to. But his grogginess was quickly blown away once he identified who had barged so rudely into his kingly chamber in the wee hours of the morning and the manner in which they did so, with one of his paid and competent mercenaries, weakened and practically crippled, escorting the intruders at gunpoint.

He bolted out of bed, wearing nothing but his silk pants and a horrified expression, just as another head popped up from the duvet. It was a woman, with the creative unmentionables and heavy make-up of a prostitute, who then proceeded to shriek at the top of her lungs.

The genius detetive's whirling brain rapidly took in his surroundings, past the wealth and luxury and straight to what mattered. There were ancient death masks from Greece, Rome, South America, wooden and metal, gaping out from their sporadic placements along the walls. The consulting detective smirked.

Subtly handing off his recently acquired assault rifle to John at his back, Sherlock gradually approached the red-haired man with arms held out in front of him, his mouth solemn and eyes wild.

Suddenly, John was afraid. What was his friend doing? He was much too close to their enemy, much too un-armed. He could be killed. "Sherlock," John cautioned, clutching at his black sleeve.

Momentarily, Sherlock glanced back to John, the detective's face conveying more assurance than his words. "John, I know what I'm doing."

John nodded once. He trusted his flatmate's judgment, but upraised the black rifle and his own Browning at the ready, just in case, watching the guard in the corner of his eye. "If you even look at him wrong, I'll decorate the lovely furniture with your insides," John snarled under his breath to the wounded guard who sagged beside the doctor's feet.

Sherlock floated toward the crime boss who stood stock-still in disbelief and panic. "You know who I am? Who I was?" Sherlock asked in a voice unlike his own, but rather wispier and mellow, almost like a…ghost.

Oh. John understood now. His lips tightened automatically to keep himself from laughing out loud. He couldn't have a bout of the giggles violating their one slim chance to get out of this with not only their lives, but what they needed to bring these sods down and clear Sherlock's name. It seemed much too easy.

Let's hope this works, John thought to himself with a wordless prayer.

The red-haired suspect paled visibly. "Sher-Sherlock Holmes," he stammered. "But you're—you're supposed to be dead!"

"I am. I am dead," Sherlock lied. The melodic note veiling the usual timbre of his voice transformed his confirmation into a chant that even sent a feeble chill up John's spine. "Your mentor made certain of that. But I have returned, just for you."

"Wha—" the criminal gasped.

"You helped me die. And now, you have tried to kill my friend here," Sherlock gestured at John with a dramatic wave, his face and voice darkening with full-scale, otherworldly retribution. "I have come back to settle the score." Now he was only a metre away from the man, the latter backing up into his bedside table, jostling its contents and yelping out in surprise. "And if you don't leave him alone, if you don't confess all you know of the truth about Moriarty and all his sins to authorities tonight, I shall haunt you for the rest of your life."

This brigand, who had either been hand-picked by Moriarty himself or was powerful enough to rob others of the coveted throne of crime, had abruptly been whittled down to a whimpering, cringing mess just by the implication of a supernatural manifestation. Everyone had an Achilles' heel, Sherlock just wished his wasn't so ridiculous. But, if the vital results were obtained, the means would be sufficient. And, he realized in the midst of his production, this was marginally fun. Who knew that he would revel and shine in the role of a specter?

Starting from a distance, sirens wailed down the street, converging and steadily growing closer. "Better decide soon, before I change my mind. You see, I've never been very patient. And be assured, I will never be this generous again." A mad, ravenous smile slashed across Sherlock's chin. "It would be my great pleasure to torment you for all eternity…"

By the time the police arrived not five minutes later, Moriarty's secondhand man had already broken down, rendered to a babbling, whimpering child who winced at his own shadow. Through little effort and clever tactics, he had become thoroughly willing to spill more than enough to free Sherlock from the world's doubt.

The one and only Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective who had gone through hell and back against the relentless games of his nemesis, watched his life and career fall apart around him, and abandoned friends and family and all he adored to fake his death in order to survive, was finally crossing the threshold of his much-sought comeback. But all of the galling discretion and inflictive deception was almost worth it once he and his best friend became witness to Scotland Yard's reaction to Sherlock's expectant presence—an unpredictable and shocking thing, indeed.

The ordinarily cruel eyes of both Donovan and Anderson projected open widely enough to be painful as they came to a screeching and staggering halt in suite 200. Mouths impossibly ajar, they let their investigating instruments plummet to the carpet, their bodies all at once as still as statues. For once, they were speechless. John never imagined that they were capable of shutting up, but there it was. John turned his face away in order to hide his broad smile of amusement, a smile that vanished once the D.I. himself ambled into the hotel room.

Lestrade was about to chew out his partners and demand for John to tell him what was going on, until he beheld the tall, lanky figure at the doctor's side. Everything was quiet whilst his transparent thoughts flashed across his brown eyes and square face: surprise, disbelief, confusion… acknowledgement. Before he promptly fainted.

Once Greg had come to with much slapping of the face and cold water from an ice bucket dumped on him, it took them a full hour to convince all three of the truth. But eventually, after all was fully recounted by both John and Sherlock intermittently and a lot of yelling and swearing was expelled, they were begrudgingly convinced. Then drained, sore, and no longer willing to face anything else but a pillow, Sherlock and John retreated to Molly's cottage where they hoped to scrape up some vestige of rest and relaxation. However, they were severely disappointed.

Under a drizzle of rain that had just broken through the haze that covered the stars, they ran down the pavement that led through Molly's suffering garden. Whilst rushing into the warm, dry haven of shelter, John urged Sherlock to come home to Baker Street. "I will, in a few days…" Sherlock conceded cryptically.

John shivered, trying to wrap his shooting jacket closer to his neck to prevent more water from soaking his shirt. "Few days? Why?"

But John was prevented from the cure to his bewilderment and anxiety.

The young pathologist, looking ragged and frantic with panic, met the two men as they traipsed through the door. "And where have you two been?"

John and Sherlock balked, one shamefully down-casting his eyes, the other braving the conflict with resigned blankness.

Molly blocked their path down her dimly-lit hall, hands on hips and small face ferocious. They were going to get it…

"Wait, hang on, Molly, didn't you know about this?" John broached timidly before shooting a glance at Sherlock whose conflicted tenacity and lack of denial gave him his answer. The doctor sighed and braced himself for the dam to split.

"I knew about some of it, yeah…" Molly sputtered, her eyes never leaving Sherlock's. "But what I did not know was that you two were going into that horrid place alone, without help, not to mention tonight! I didn't even know you two were gone until I got home from the lab to find an empty house. I waited like an idiot for you to come by or phone me, worrying myself sick over you! Did it not cross your stupid male minds to warn me about this beforehand? I had to hear it from Greg, just now, of all people. You could've been tortured, you could've been killed! I have done everything to keep you alive, why can't you stay that way?"

Abandoning her rant in favor of taking a long breath, the pathologist vainly strove to calm her anger. Instead she continued to fume on the spot, stubbornly ignoring John as he explained to her that they had made sure that they were prepared to take on Moriarty's men, that they were completely competent and Molly's hysterics were unfounded. His endeavors to soothe her were without success.

Molly felt cold tears escaping down her cheeks and she bit her lip to try to arrest them. "You could've at least said good-bye," she choked out before disappearing into her bedroom, shutting her door with a considerable bang. Both of the men flinched.

"Why didn't you tell her?" John grumbled, still staring down the hall after Molly.

Sherlock didn't give a retort. He merely glided down the corridor, into the sitting-room, and sat on the sofa to remove his polished shoes. John stayed on the threshold for a moment before trailing after the detective and repeated his question. "Why didn't you tell her…or-or call her, or leave a note? Huh? Answer me, Sherlock Holmes!"

The subject of John's abuse sedately removed his coat and scarf and draped them over an armchair before he saw fit to oblige his friend. "Because, she might have called Lestrade too early. Everything would have been for nothing."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Damn it, Sherlock," he murmured heavily. "After all she's done for you, don't you think you can trust her by now?"

"Obviously," Sherlock hissed before ruffling his perfectly-coiffed curls with his long fingers.

"Yeah, and obviously she'd do anything for you, like, I don't know, risk unemployment, prison...her heart. I don't think keeping her mouth clamped and staying at home is too much to ask. I think she's had enough practice. So why didn't—"

"She might've followed us," Sherlock whispered, his voice strained.

Once John pieced together what Sherlock said and what it implied, he was floored. He couldn't believe his ears. "What…what do you mean? Are you saying, you, Sherlock Holmes, that you purposefully avoided telling Molly Hooper all about your clever triumphs, didn't give her the chance to worship you, all because you were afraid that she was going to be in danger? If I didn't know any better," He released a barking laugh, shaking his head. "I never thought I'd see the day…"

Sherlock's dark eyebrows knitted together, his eyes clouded. "What are you talking about?"

"Sherlock Holmes, I think you're falling in love with her."

The dark-haired man's head snapped to attention, his ire too quick to be innocent. "What? Don't be stupid!"

Words laden with sarcasm, John mumbled, "Uh-huh, right. Well, I guess it's for the best then, that you aren't, because you're about to lose her."

The ex-soldier trudged toward the front door but turned back once more. "I was a bit doubtful before, but now I know for sure. Miracles really do happen, after all." And before Sherlock could contradict him, John was gone.

Less than an hour later, whilst restlessly wandering their flat alone, John received an unforeseen text from Molly's mobile that allowed him to calm and made his heart squeeze in elation. It read:

- I know nothing of miracles or heroes. But after what you said about me, I find I feel the same about you. I'd be lost without you by my side. The gratitude of your friendship lies solely with me. Thank you, John Watson, for being my best and only friend. -SH