A/N: Well folks – this is it! Last chapter. If you check at the end, I have tried to thank everyone who followed, favoured and reviewed. If I forgot you, I am sorry! I am so happy with all of the response I got for this story. I had a scattering of requests for a sequel. I am still thinking about that. I have a very, very small glimmer of an idea, but I am not going to promise anything. I am not always happy with my sequels and I will have to think it through.

As always, I do not own! I do have a lovely piece of art, a story I am happy with (that's a lot for me) and lots of new readers. That makes me smile:). If I did own I might let you come over and share – might:P

10 It Feels Like Nothing Matters

The black cab pulled up in front of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock climbed out of the vehicle as gracefully as he did everything and stood on the sidewalk contemplating the return to his home from the long absence. The home he'd been away from for over two years. A home there were times he wasn't sure he'd see again.

Not many would have recognized him as he stood straight and tall, hands in the pockets of his beloved coat, returned to him the night before, the air of winter nipping at his cheeks and brushing them with a slight pink, making him look healthier than he probably was. Being away for so long, always on the run, always on the hunt, he'd lost more weight than he could afford. Still, he'd gotten away with more than John.

Almost as if he'd heard his name flow across Sherlock's mind, John slowly pulled himself out from the cab. Hearing the movement, Sherlock whirled quickly, slightly ashamed he'd been lost in thought, neglecting the other man. He held out a hand. John looked up from where he sat, pale and thin, as he grinned that grin that went straight to Sherlock's heart, plummeted it, sent it on a different trajectory and made it miss a few beats in the process; a grin Sherlock at one point wasn't sure would ever flash upon that open, sunny face ever again. John grasped the proffered hand with his right. As their fingers brushed, the electric hum of contact pulsed through them. It always would.

Sherlock helped the other steady himself and asked "You all right?" softly.

John shrugged his right shoulder, his left arm strapped and still immobilized from the surgery to his shoulder and recovering fairly well, all things considered.

"I've been better. But then," And his eyes crinkled up more. "I've been worse as well. I'll be fine. The past is past. Let's move on, shall we?"

Sherlock's hand, of its own accord, rose up and traced along the crow's feet at the corner of John's eyes, brushed through the short, silky hair, more gray than there had been. His fingers skimmed down his cheek and along the determined chin, he tilted John's face up and softly, softly, placed his lips upon the slightly roughened ones. John's free hand came up and his fingers wrapped themselves around the back of the other's neck, stroking through the short ginger hairs there, all that remained of the black riotous curls. They pressed together and a sound began to come up from the bottom of Sherlock's throat, a cross between a hum and a groan. It had been so long and there had been so much apprehension, wondering if John would even make it. The overwhelming need and want of John right here and right now, threatened to engulf him.

Fortunately for the passersby, the cabbie shouted "OI! Lovebirds! Metre's still running here!" and they reluctantly broke apart.

Sherlock chuckled, the first real laugh since John had been shot and it cleared away the last of the doctor's fatigue and replaced it with sunlight. That was a precious sound and one John had been longing to hear again.

The tall man leaned into the cab and tossed more than enough money at the cabbie. He then grabbed the two small bags with their personal things. Not that either had many at this point and what they did have Mycroft had had to replace most. He then turned, walked up to the door and rang the bell. John, by this time, had made his way to stand beside him.

He glanced quizzically at the younger man.

"You're still not nervous are you?"

Sherlock huffed. "Me nervous? Don't be ludicrous. I am never nervous."

John felt his grin could not get any wider, but he simply nodded his head thoughtfully and waited to see what Sherlock's landlady (from all accounts so much more than a landlady) thought of Sherlock's return from the dead.

The door opened and a petite, older woman stood there. John noted that she still retain good looks and must have been stunning when she was younger. She seemed confused for a moment and then shrieked and flew at the detective; her small fists pummeled him as John waited and did nothing, just enjoyed the show.

"You stupid, stupid boy! You horrible man. How could you? How could you do this to me? Let me think you were dead all of this time." Her tirade went on for some time, while Sherlock, much to his partner's surprise, took the punishment fairly stoically. Finally, tears streaming down her face, she threw her arms around the younger man and pulled him to her. Sherlock gently and carefully, hugged her and patted her back. His countenance airing pleasure and surprise. John watched the other's face with amusement and something akin to awe. He knew, that beside himself, there were very few people Sherlock truly cared about. He also was aware how anxious Sherlock had been about this meeting, with this woman whom he could see meant a great deal to the detective. She had been, after all, one of the three Sherlock had jumped for.

After a few moments, the woman pulled herself together, took a tissue from the sleeve of her blouse, blew her nose and wiped her eyes. She tutted a bit over the shorn hair and then she settled her shoulders back, smiled a watery smile at Sherlock and turned to John.

"Now then, Sherlock, who's this?" As if the last few minutes had not taken place. She smiled a kind and motherly smile at John. He basked in the glow and could see why Sherlock cared so much for this remarkably resilient woman.

"Mrs. Hudson, may I introduce you to Dr. John Watson, John this is Mrs. Martha Hudson, my landlady. John is my partner."

He was carefully enveloped in a hug as warm as the smile.

"Oh, Sherlock, I can see he's more than just your partner," she stage whispered. "Good catch, my boy. A doctor!" She patted John on his good arm. "You must be something special to put up with the likes of him. But I see there's a story waiting to be told here. Come in, come in. You must be tired. Tell me all about it, Sherlock. How did you get injured Dr. Watson?"

Mrs. Hudson continued to ramble as they walked up the stairs to Sherlock's old flat. She acted as if he were just returning from holiday, not like he'd come back from the dead.

"Made me wonder, it did, Mycroft insisting the flat be kept up, kept clean. He paid more than fair value for the rent of the place. Insisted it not be used or let out. Didn't want your things mucked about. It crossed my mind to be a tad suspicious of the whole thing, but there you go." And she threw open the door to the flat. Sherlock walked in and stood in the doorway, taking it all in. The flat, his home, so much more than just a place to rest and recuperate, it was an extension of himself. He finally moved aside and John was able to see for the first time the reality of what had been present in their dreams.

It was a little disconcerting. Everything was the same as it had been in the shelter. The fireplace, the 2 skulls, bison and human, the couch and chairs, but all contained within walls. John felt a tad claustrophobic not to see open and impossibly blue sky above him. He found he had an ache in his heart for a missing apple tree.

Sherlock looked into navy eyes as they swept back to his and saw the wonder and confusion.

He took John's hand, kissed the back of it and whispered,

"It's all real."

John nodded slightly and shook his head.

"You have a good memory to have been able to place all of this in there."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

"You have a good memory to remember a dream place from two years ago."

A strange and disquieting look passed over John's face, but Sherlock let it pass as Mrs. Hudson entered the room.

"Got a call from Mycroft this morning, demanding that I put fresh sheets on your bed and stock the fridge. I assumed it was going to be friends of his staying here. Demanding, I tell you. I will have words with that boy one of these days."

Sherlock and John looked at each other and grinned, both at the though of Mycroft having friends and being spoken to.

Mrs. Hudson then bustled off to make tea for the three of them. "Just this once, mind. I'm not your housekeeper," called over her shoulder.

John, meanwhile, settled himself in a familiar chair. It was more than odd sitting in a corporeal chair he'd never sat in before but was as familiar as the back of his hand.

Coat and scarf hung on the hook on the wall, the younger man came and stood by the chair.

"Do you need anything? Your pills are in the bag." He tossed his head in that direction.

John smiled up a Sherlock. "No, I'm fine. Just tired."

The detective nodded and span about to sit in the chair facing John. He smiled at the older man, his mind filled with thoughts of what they would be able to do later. He'd have to be careful and considerate, since John was still recovering, but there were still many, many opportunities to show his desire and need. He shuddered lightly with anticipation.

Mrs. Hudson entered the room, set a tea tray upon the table and poured out tea for the three of them. She settled herself upon the couch and looked at Sherlock expectantly. He sighed and began the long process of debriefing. It was a more thorough interrogation than the one Mycroft's men had put them through upon their return. John's had been less of an ordeal because at the time he was still recuperating. Sherlock placed a stray and irreverent thought at the back of his mind, Mycroft may want to employ Mrs. Hudson in the future.

He took her through the story of the days leading up to the jump. She teared up and proclaimed, "Oh, Sherlock!" when he explained why he had had to jump. He told her about his coma and how John came to be involved, skipping a lot of the more graphic details and sticking with "He helped me regain consciousness."

Then he told of their hunt through Europe and North and South America, taking down Moriarty's web, again he skimmed over a lot of detail, partly because of security, partly because he didn't wish Martha to have nightmares. When he got to the last days, the last person they had to track down, he hesitated.

John took over with his calm manner and explained the luring of Sebastian Moran to an abandoned flat in Berlin, drawing him out with the tantalizing idea of Sherlock being alive. He spun the tale in his quiet way, not pulling any punches with his own stupidity of letting Moran shoot him. Sherlock cleared his throat, glared at John and then turned to Mrs. Hudson.

"He jumped in front of the bullet. I shot Moran and almost lost him." He looked back at John, who waved off Sherlock.

"Nothing quite as heroic as he makes it sound."

Sherlock continued to glower.

"Yes, but if Mycroft's men hadn't have turned up when they did…" he let the sentence hang.

John smiled at Sherlock fondly, "But they did Sherlock, and I'm still here."

Sherlock nodded tightly, and turned to Mrs. Hudson. "And then the idiot contracts some ridiculous infection and I almost lost him all over again." He sniffed dismissively, but Mrs. Hudson was not fooled.

"There, there, you're home now. I'm going to leave you two alone to get settled. Call me if you need anything. And I'll talk to you in the morning." She turned to leave but shouted back up the stairs, "Oh and boys, not too loud, please. I need my sleep as much as you two obviously do." And she winked and was gone

Sherlock stood and followed her. He closed the door and turned to the older man sitting in the chair. John smiled wearily up at Sherlock. A tiny piece of Sherlock's now obvious heart broke at the sweet smile on the face of the much too thin man. His mind tumbled over the precipice of what might have happened. He vividly remembered all of the blood pumping out of John and covering the two of them as he tried to stop it. Mycroft's men had indeed showed up in the nick of time and rushed John to the nearest hospital. Mycroft had sent the best specialists to them and they had been able to repair most of the damage to John's shoulder. He would still lose some of his fine motor in the left hand, but as John had said at the time he wasn't a surgeon and he shot with his right, so it wasn't as great a loss as it could have been.

John, who was as good at reading Sherlock as Sherlock was at reading John, held out his right hand to the taller man and simply said, "Come."

The younger man walked over and sank bonelessly at John's feet. He placed his head in John's lap while his hair was stroked. Sherlock had dyed it an almost acceptable shade of ginger in order to disguise himself, but it was the curls that John missed the most.

"You'll have to let your hair grow out."

Surprisingly Sherlock chuckled again as his arms tightened around John's legs.

"What?" John asked.

"The look on Mycroft's face when he met us at the airport. You'd think he'd have noticed sooner. I knew he'd been tracking us on the CCTV cameras everywhere.

John, continuing to run his fingers through the shorn hair, felt the detective relax into his ministrations, chuckled along. "I suspect it's harder to see colour on some of those feeds."

All was quiet for a few moments, until a thought returned to Sherlock's mind.

"John?"

"Hmmm?" came a sleepy reply.

"Why did you look so surprised when we were talking about the shelter? When you first saw the flat?" He looked up at John and swept his gaze over the man's face.

"You still dream about it don't you?" he sat up and leaned back upon his heels. "You still go there, don't you?"

John heard something in Sherlock's voice, longing, perhaps a touch of jealousy.

He blinked slowly and opened his mouth. He closed it again.

He tried once more.

"Every night since we left, Sherlock. It's peaceful there. It's quiet. And…"

He paused as if unsure as to how Sherlock would take the next piece of news.

"And?" the other man prompted.

"You're there too." John sighed. "I thought you'd remember. We talk about it every dream, but you don't seem to remember it in the morning, so I didn't bring it up." He paused again. "Sherlock, you know we are still connected through that place. Think about it. How else do you suppose you know me so well, know what I'm thinking, how we both know when the other is hurt, like that time in Rio? We are still tied to that place. I don't know if we'll ever be able to leave. I don't know if I want to."

Sherlock was stunned.

He never forgot anything he didn't want to, yet here was John telling him that every night they met in the shelter, every night they spent time together, shared each others thoughts and knowing the way the two of them acted around each other shared each others bodies a well and he did not remember a single thing from their time there ever since he had awoken after finding John.

"It's all right, you know. There must be a reason why you don't remember. We'll figure it out." He touched Sherlock's face, concern and worry in his eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

John shrugged with a single shoulder. "There didn't seem to be a good occasion to bring it up, being on the run and all. I didn't want you distracted. But now," And he smiled again. "Now we have time."

Sherlock thoughts turned dark for a moment, not because of what had just been revealed but something he remembered. "John, I have wanted to tell you for a long time now. I am…I am sorry for what I, what I did to you, for what my Moriarty self did to you in there. You wouldn't have been lost and you wouldn't have had to quit your work if it wasn't because of me.

John placed his hand on Sherlock's mouth.

"I'm not sorry. I am not sorry one bit. If that hadn't have happened, I wouldn't be as connected to you as I am. I don't know if we would be here, right now. It was fate and good luck and whatever else you want to call it. It was what was meant to have happened. But even if it wasn't, we are here now and we are together and I wouldn't want it any other way." He leaned in and kissed Sherlock, kissed him hard and with all the want that had been building between the two of them ever since they knew John was going to be all right. They had shown each other in other ways, how much they meant to each other, through care and consideration. It was now time to show each other in the best possible way.

Sherlock felt the heat and desire rush through his veins as John's lips met his. He fumbled with the belt on John's trousers.

John pulled back and giggled a little.

"Whoa, slow down. Let's take this to the bedroom. I don't know about you but I'm looking forward to doing this somewhere that isn't a shoddy hotel room, or a park…"

"Or that garage in Phoenix." Sherlock's mouth quirked remembering he time in question.

"Oh yes!" grinned John ruefully. "That was memorable.

He grasped Sherlock's hand and began to lead him toward the bedroom when something on the table between the two windows caught his eye.

Sitting on the table was a metal bowl, artfully made to look like a stylized basket. Placed inside was a collection of apples, all new, fresh and shiny.

He paused, looked at the bowl, looked at Sherlock, back to the bowl, his face slightly worried.

Sherlock followed his gaze and felt his eyebrows went up.

"John…" he began, his mouth suddenly dry.

"John, I know what you're thinking, but sometimes a bowl of apples is just a bowl of apples."

The older man looked at Sherlock and studied his face.

He nodded with a slight reluctance.

Then he sighed, carefully, cautiously. He smiled and the full weight of that smile entered into Sherlock's heart.

"You're right. Of course you are."

And with that he let Sherlock lead him down the hall to the bedroom, the basket of apples the furthest thing from his mind.

A/N: As always first and for most my thanks to the Ladies of the Kitchen: johnsarmylady, Ennui Enigma, jack63kids, mattsloved1, thedragonaunt (I'll get those changes to you soon!), Lucy36 (I know you haven't read yet but you might someday:D), patemalah21, starrysummernights.

And to all my other friends new and old! junejuly15, SassyVeeDub, hjohn302, ThisDayWilPass, SniperKingSogeKing0341, Old Ping Hai, Selany, SomeInfinitiesAreLarge, BipolarMolar, CarmH, BlackPanzy, mitchie67, Professor CatEars, BeeLeeGee, Yam Jam, Foxmac, SherlockedForLife (I took the dots out between your name because it won't show up for some weird reason – still have to fix that on the other thank you:), A. , Kotori-Sensei, NotQuiteBerserk, Broken Daydreamer, tkilyle, jeevesandwooster, 123-321, MaryElizabeth, RoseDoctorForEva, Idleutopia, Joo Lee, k8ec, Hephaistos, Rose O'Sharon, damson1, White Tasia, Cabot, TeapotInATempest, Ritsuka Shin, kmd5133, GY, InterestingName, castawaystar, mixed array, lavender elephants, sweet-chaos-chan, helenecolin, GlitchOfSpace, W. , Dimavarien, TellMeMore90, Gonzonimbus, Impassive Moon, cutestdiva!, Robottko, inner evil, KiaraLupincub, danishprince, Totori, Luthien Morgon, SenpaiNoSasuke, Irka, mnm-343, firebird2013, Jewelprincess7, PsychoSophie, Sairar1, twilighter256, SirCharlesOfStaines, JustBeAQueen, AmeliaGarrett, laCella, IamSHERlocked4ever, SkylerWayli, Megabat, ResdentialLoDGAotaku, Gryffindorsdarkangel (I also removed the dots because of issues – it thinks it's a website:P), ShadowObsessor01, xSommerRegen, EmpressKie, yuumiBat, klaine9tana, AnyaMaia.

Phew – I think that took longer than writing the chapter – lol!