They get back to the hotel at around eleven o'clock. Walking into the living-room, John stops dead.

'What's this?'

Sherlock stops alongside him. 'I rang the hotel about half an hour ago to see if they could arrange this for us. I thought it would be a nice gesture.'

John stares at the champagne and strawberries set out for them on the low coffee table.

'It's amazing, Sherlock.' He stretches up and kisses the detective softly. 'Thank you.' They cuddle up on the sofa and John pours them champagne. 'Since when did you get romantic?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'I looked up romantic gestures on google and this seemed to be one of the most popular.'

'Well, it's very much appreciated. I love it.' John turns to Sherlock and is distracted by the sight of a plump strawberry disappearing between the detective's full lips. John swallows audibly, suddenly distracted by thoughts of what else could disappear into Sherlock's sinfully delicious mouth.

'Ah. You desire oral sex,' Sherlock announces, swallowing the strawberry and abruptly dropping to his knees in front of John, still seated on the sofa.

'Wait... what?' John manages as Sherlock unzips his trousers.

'Do you not want this?' Sherlock queries as he gazes up at the doctor. John searches his face for any sign of hesitance or nervousness, and finds none. Surrendering he raises his hands.

'I do,' he murmurs. Sherlock pops the button on his trousers and John lifts his hips in order to allow Sherlock to pull them down, along with his boxers. He has to stifle a moan as he feels the warmth of Sherlock's mouth descend on him. The detective is clumsy and inexperienced but he makes up for that in pure enthusiasm. John chances a look down and almost comes on the spot from the sight of those obscene lips moving up and down his shaft, those jet-black curls bobbing. Sherlock Holmes is giving him a blow-job. Sherlock Holmes is giving him a blow-job. How did he get this lucky?

He feels himself nearing the edge and pulls Sherlock upwards onto the sofa with him.

'Together,' he murmurs, cautiously reaching down to unzip Sherlock's trousers. He waits for any sign of hesitance, but there isn't any. He pushes Sherlock's trousers and boxers down so that they are moving together with no material between them. It elicits a gasp from Sherlock as he throws his head back, the muscles cording in that beautiful pale neck.

'John,' he groans, thrusting his hips into John who responds in the same way as he mouths kisses along Sherlock's throat. Did John ever seriously believe Sherlock was asexual? How wrong he was. The detective is sex personified as he ruts into John, his lips parted, his cheeks flushed and his curls falling over his face.

'I'm going to come,' Sherlock mutters brokenly, his face now flushed crimson. 'I can't... John!' John feels the tell-tale wetness spread over his hip as Sherlock releases. The detective collapses bonelessly on top of him and he continues working himself until he orgasms too with a muted cry.

For a few minutes they lie together in a sated state of bliss until Sherlock pushes himself off John.

'I'm sorry, John,' Sherlock mutters. John heaves himself up into a sitting position and stares at him.

'What on earth for?'

'For finishing that... quickly. It can't have been satisfying for you.'

'You have never been more beautiful to me,' John replies honestly. Seeing Sherlock's eyes blow with orgasm, seeing his body shudder and shake... 'And it was more than satisfying for me.' He moves closer to the detective and wraps an arm around him. 'Listen, we're both new at this. I've never been with a man and you've never been with anybody. It'll take time for us to learn each other's bodies. That's part of the fun. It's all about experimentation.' Sherlock's eyes light up at this and John laughs. 'Yeah, I thought you'd like that. But seriously, that's all it is. Trial and error. And being with you, just like this, is perfect for me.'

'I suppose we should go to bed,' Sherlock murmurs. 'I imagine I'm going to need rest for whatever you have planned for tomorrow.'

John gets up and grabs the champagne bottle before heading into the bedroom.

XXXXXXXXXX

'Is this really necessary, John?' Sherlock whines as they exit the café they've just had lunch in. 'We don't even have the required swimwear. And surely my injuries prevent me from entering a public pool.'

'We buy some trunks,' John responds evenly. 'We already have towels from the hotel. And your injuries are no more than a six centimetre scratch on your side and a graze on your knuckles, both of which can be covered by a couple of large plasters.' He is resolved in his own mind. He is not leaving Bath without paying a visit to the Thermal Spa. He drags a still grumbling Sherlock into a sports shop to buy some swimming trunks. Sherlock scans the range available with a deeply disgusted look.

'Do people actually wear these things?' he remarks, holding up a virulent orange pair between his thumb and forefinger as though scared he'll catch some sort of disease.

'Yes, they do,' John replies, flicking through the sizes of some plain black ones. 'If you don't like these, you've always got Speedos.' He gestures at the skimpy garments hanging behind them and laughs as Sherlock blanches.

'On second thoughts I'm sure these will be adequate.'

'We'll get you a black pair and I'll go with navy. What size are you?' He casts an appraising, and appreciative, glance at Sherlock's hips. 'Thirty-four?'

Sherlock shrugs as if the question of whether the trunks will fit him or not is of the utmost unimportance.

'Fine, I'll just get you these.' John pays for the trunks and hurries Sherlock out of the shop before he can start deducing the hapless assistants or the other customers.

Two hours later and they are relaxing in the naturally heated waters of the roof-top pool. Bath's skyline stretches in all directions and steam rises lazily from the surface, dissipating slowly in the air. John is enjoying himself immensely because as well as the beautiful view of the city he also has the sight of Sherlock in a pair of clinging dark swim trunks to content himself with. The detective is currently occupying himself with sniffing at the water which is rich in mineral content.

'I'm bored, John,' Sherlock announces after awhile, splashing his way over to where John is reclining. 'There's nothing to do. I've already determined at least seven different minerals present in this pool.'

'Excellent,' John murmurs, allowing his eyes to flutter shut. 'Why don't you carry on doing that for awhile? Try and find seven more.'

'I'm not a child, John,' Sherlock whines, sounding petulant. John cracks a smile.

'You sound like one right now.'

There's the sound of slowly moving water and then suddenly John feels a warm weight settle against his chest. At the same time Sherlock's legs straddle either side of his thighs so that the other man is virtually sitting in his lap. The detective's warm breath is blowing on the side of his neck as Sherlock leans in to whisper in his ear.

'Do I feel like one?'

'No,' John murmurs, that shivery feeling suddenly present once again in his stomach. He winds his arms around Sherlock's waist and pulls him closer. 'We're in a public place, Sherlock. We have to be respectful.'

'Respectful's boring,' Sherlock mutters sulkily, nipping lightly at John's earlobe. John groans slightly, knowing he should push Sherlock away but he cannot bring himself to do it. He feels Sherlock shift slightly and then Sherlock's lips are on his, teasing and and cajoling. John responds, opening his mouth, allowing his tongue to swipe around Sherlock's teeth and then probe deeper. The detective moans low in his throat and arches back slightly. John takes advantage of his momentary distraction to break the kiss.

'I am not going to get arrested for public indecency,' he pants, 'it's enough having an ASBO, thank you.'

'Oh come on, you know that got revoked,' Sherlock murmurs enticingly. 'And besides, how can you possibly be arrested for public indecency when you've still got your genitalia covered?' As if to prove his point his hand snakes down between their chests and brushes against John's now hardening cock, over the fabric of his trunks.

'Jesus,' John curses, not able to help himself bucking into Sherlock. Anxiously he scans the pool. They're lucky in that it's virtually deserted. An elderly gentleman seems to be dozing on one of the recliners and the young couple at the opposite end are seemingly much too engrossed in each other to pay any attention to them. Nevertheless, if John doesn't stop it now he knows that he won't be able to stop. And he has a feeling that ejaculating in a public pool is something very much frowned upon.

'Stop, Sherlock,' he says in a wavering voice. 'Not here.'

To his credit the detective does back off slightly, his pupils still slightly blown with lust. 'But it's so boring,' he whines. John sighs deeply, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. He has been to the Spa at least, even if it wasn't quite the relaxing experience he'd hoped for. And if he's honest with himself would he have enjoyed it if Sherlock had been quiet and placid? A small smirk makes its way onto his lips and he stands up, the water lapping at his waist.

'Come on then, let's head back to the hotel. I think I've had enough of Bath anyway. Shall we get the train to London tomorrow?'

A blinding smile lights Sherlock's face.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Back in the flat, John has to stifle a laugh as Sherlock rushes around touching almost everything, his violin case, his books on the bookshelf, the various experiments scattered over surfaces. It's like watching an animal mark its territory, he thinks fondly.

Of course Sherlock notices his amusement and stops instantly, fidgeting slightly in the centre of the living room.

'I didn't think I'd ever be coming back,' he murmurs quietly, his gaze drifting to stare around the flat. John takes a step forwards and opens his arms.

'Come on,' he says, gesturing the detective towards him. Sherlock shifts and rolls his eyes but eventually takes a few steps and then he is in John's arms. Immediately John winds his arms around Sherlock's waist and he feels the detective tentatively hug him back. They stay frozen in that position for a few seconds, John just enjoying the contact.

'No more secrets,' he murmurs. 'No more hiding. Just us. A new start.'

Sherlock pulls away and looks at him, his eyes intense. 'A new start. And, I have something to tell you.'

'Oh God, what is it?' John says, instantly worried.

'I've decided to take Lestrade up on his offer.'

'What?'

'Honestly John, do try to keep up won't you? It's not that taxing an idea. I am going to accept Lestrade's offer of a job on Scotland Yard's official payroll.'

John blinks, his mouth slightly agape. 'But what about all that stuff about I can't be tied down, nobody can control me, I do what I want?'

Sherlock glares at him. 'Firstly, I do not sound like that, you are shockingly awful at mimicry and secondly...' he shrugs. 'It's either this or accept the fact that I will never be able to assist on cases again without moving out of London.'

'Well, that sounds amazing Sherlock.' He smiles but his head is reeling. If Sherlock joins Scotland Yard, what is going to happen to him? He remembers how much he'd loved assisting the detective on cases. Occasionally he had felt like a little bit of a hanger-on but most of the time it had been absolutely brilliant. It made an astonishing contrast to his old job at the surgery where many of the incidents he saw were dull and predictable. He laughs to himself. God, I'm even thinking like him now.

'Of course, I am only offering my services under a few provisos,' Sherlock continues, either not noticing or ignoring John's inner turmoil. 'First, that I retain my title of Consulting Detective. Second, that I have the right to refuse a case anytime I wish. Third, that if I am called in, my instructions must be listened to and acted upon.' John nods, forcing another smile to his lips.

'That sounds brilliant. I'm sure they'll agree to that, no problem. After all, they've only got to look at the figures to see how much you helped.'

'I hadn't finished,' Sherlock says, eyeing John closely.

'Ah, sorry. Fire away.' John ambles into the kitchen to flick the kettle on, Sherlock trailing after him.

'Fourth, and this is utterly non-negotiable, that my partner is to be given a position on the official payroll as well.'

'Your partner?' John asks stupidly, pausing in the middle of getting mugs from the cupboard.

'Yes, John. I shan't work with Anderson and I need somebody I can rely on.' Sherlock runs a hand through his hair. 'You gave up your job at the surgery because of me. Because of what I did to you. I know how much you miss having that sense of purpose, I can see it. And...' he pauses, as if struggling with words. John watches, eyes wide. Sherlock is never lost for something to say. 'You make it better when you're there, John. You inspire me to do more, be better. You're the only one whose opinion really matters.'

John gapes at him and he cannot stop the momentary joy that flares through him at the prospect. Then his shoulders slump.

'They'll never let me tag along after you. I mean, you've proven your worth. But doctors are a dime a dozen.'

'Not you,' Sherlock says fiercely, taking a step towards John. The kettle clicks off and it goes completely unnoticed. 'If I am going to help, you have to be there. You're unique John. You are so much more than you give yourself credit for. I have met many people in my life and not one of them has been half as fascinating as you.' John doesn't know quite what to say to this, his throat seems to have closed up and he has to swallow convulsively to clear the blockage. 'I'll ring Lestrade now,' Sherlock announces, already with his phone in hand. He whirls out of the room and John shakily fills the mugs for tea. Once his is done he relaxes in his chair, waiting for Sherlock to tell him the outcome of the call.

Soon enough the detective is back, his silvery eyes glowing, his curls standing on end.

'Welcome to Scotland Yard, Consulting Physician.' John stares at him.

'You mean it? You're not just kidding me?'

'John. I never kid.' Sherlock suddenly looks a little anxious, his brow furrowing. 'Are you not happy? I'm sorry, I didn't even think to ask if...'

'God, Sherlock no!' John cries, forcing his limbs into action so he can get up from the chair and move over to Sherlock. 'That's not it at all! I'm over the moon, honestly. I just... I never thought...' he trails off and knuckles a hand into his eyes.

'John? What's wrong? What's happening?' Sherlock's fearful and confused tone makes John smile slightly sadly.

'I just never thought that I'd ever have this much luck. To have you, back here and alive would be enough. But to have you with me, as we are now, as my other half, and then to be paid for running around with you on crimescenes, it just – it all got a bit much.' He falls silent and then mutters: 'I keep thinking that I'm going to wake up one day and you won't be there. You'll be dead, and this is all just some amazingly lovely yet cruel dream.'

There is silence for a few seconds. Sherlock, unusually, seems to be struggling to find something to say and John's gaze is fixed on the carpet.

'What can I say to convince you that I'm back for good?' Sherlock asks softly, not moving from his position across from John. The doctor shrugs slowly.

'I don't think there's anything you can say.'

'Right.' Abruptly Sherlock turns away and paces towards the window. John sighs and crosses the room. As he reaches the detective he doesn't touch him, merely stands by his side.

'It's not in what you say, anyway. Just be here, with me, and soon you leaving will seem like a nightmare.'

Sherlock twists his head to stare down at John, who meets his gaze full on. 'I never wanted to leave you alone. But remember that I was alone too. The things I had to do to keep you safe will stay with me for a long time.'

John grasps his wrist and tows him to the sofa, then sits them both down. His tone is serious when he next speaks.

'You never told me exactly what you did.'

'Because it doesn't matter anymore,' Sherlock responds irritably. 'Honestly, John, let's not...'

'I know you don't want to talk about this. But I think we need to. I've told you everything, the darkest moments I had while you were gone. I think you need to do the same. Otherwise it's always going to be between us.'

'You won't, tell anyone?' Sherlock's words are hesitant and nervous. John clasps his hand tightly.

'It's between you and me. I promise.'

'It started in Prague. There was an organisation simply called Webbers Inc. Outwardly they seemed to specialise in stationary but I knew it went far deeper than that. The chairman was a gentleman named Spencer Graff. Mycroft did some digging and found out that he worked for Moriarty a long time ago in Ireland. I destroyed the entire warehouse. Blew it up with all the workers inside. Of course they all belonged to the criminal organisation, I made sure of that, but still... their screams. Graff managed to make it out, he fell from a second storey window, his clothes on fire. I can still smell the burning flesh. By the time he hit the floor he was a wreck, barely alive. I shot him in the head.'

Sherlock talks for a long time. Through it all John holds his hand, never interrupting, never expressing the emotions clamouring inside his mind.

'It ended in Paris,' Sherlock finishes. His expression is tormented, his eyes dull and his skin pale. 'I finally caught up to Moran.' He turns to John. 'I needed to make him suffer. He was the last piece and the second-in-command to Moriarty. I was robbed of the chance to make Moriarty understand what he'd done. Threatening you, in any way, was unforgivable. So I punished Moran instead. I drew his fingernails out one by one. I broke both his kneecaps and blinded him. Then, when he was writhing in agony, I shot him.' Slowly he withdraws his hand from John's and turns his head away.

'Sherlock...' John begins, but he cannot finish the sentence. He hasn't even thought his words through. How can he express the thoughts racing through his mind? The doctor part of his psyche is rebelling at the suffering these individuals were put through at the hands of his partner. From the way Sherlock tells it (blunt and honest) they must have been in tremendous pain before they died.

The other part of him is proud. Sherlock managed to take down a criminal network which had existed for years and years, across at least three continents, in the space of three years. All on his own, by the sounds of it. Mycroft helped, apparently, but it was Sherlock who was the sole field agent.

Altogether he feels unparalleled sorrow for the individual victims who perhaps didn't fully deserve to have their life taken away from them, but most of all for Sherlock. He feels guilty that Sherlock needed to take such drastic action to protect him, and yet he understands why he needed to. Had Moriarty's network been allowed to survive, in any form, they would never have been safe.

He is aware that Sherlock has turned and is staring at him but cannot respond. After a few seconds Sherlock gets up and is gone, through the door of the living-room in the direction of his bedroom. John remains frozen in his position on the sofa for awhile longer, attempting to calm his mind.

Sherlock. Murder. Innocents. Moriarty. Sherlock. Network. Proud. Murder. Brave. Me. Sherlock.

The grief hits him anew. Sherlock had been suffering so much over those years, fully as much as John. Hadn't John said something along the lines of "While you were off, swanning around..."? Of course, he didn't know any different at the time, but the disparity between what he imagined and the reality is jarring. He cannot imagine what Sherlock must have gone through. Thinking back, the detective had tried to tell him a few times but he'd studiously ignored him. All that darkness, all that pain. Whatever people (and he is thinking mainly of Anderson and Donovan here) believe of Sherlock, the man is not a cold-blooded killer. He has feelings, and emotions. He can empathise. But due to perhaps an unstable childhood accompanied by his superior intellect and, John isn't afraid to hypothesise, bullying, he has grown to suppress everything apart from his mind. John is the one who brought everything back to him.

It is only now that John realises he is crying, the tears are dripping down his chin and onto his jumper. Slowly he gets to his feet and makes his way to Sherlock's bedroom. Softly he raps on the wood of the door. Getting no reply he twists the handle and enters. At first he sees no sign of the detective. Then, upon closer inspection, he notices the bundle of dark curls just visible above the other side of the bed.

'Sherlock? Can I join you?' he asks quietly.

'If you must,' is the reply. John is taken aback at his tone; cold and unfeeling. He swallows and makes his way around the side of the bed so he can sit down next to the detective. Sherlock is staring straight ahead at the wall opposite and his cheeks are pale yet dry. He glances at John and a bitter smile curves his lips.

'I've disgusted you.'

'No,' John replies honestly. 'I'm just sorry.'

'For all those people I murdered in cold-blood.'

'Yes,' John says. 'But...'

'Are you going to leave me?'

'Sherlock...'

'I don't care either way,' Sherlock carries on, his tone mechanical. 'You can leave or stay, it makes no difference to me.'

'Sherlock...'

'Of course, if you stay you're going to have to get used to the fact that you're living with a cruel, ruthless killer...'

'Sherlock! Just shut up, will you?' The detective blinks and continues staring blankly at the wall. John sighs deeply.

'I'm not leaving you, and I'm not disgusted.'

'No, you're just sorry for all those I murdered.'

'As I said, yes,' John responds with a long-suffering sigh. 'But you didn't let me finish. Before you went on your little rant, I was about to say that I also feel incredibly sorry for you. For what it did to you, and why it was necessary. I understand, Sherlock. And I'm not the paragon of all the virtues you seem to think I am. Are you forgetting that I shot a man dead hours after we first met just because he threatened you?'

'He wasn't a very nice man, though, you said it yourself,' Sherlock says quietly.

'And I'm guessing that the people you killed weren't exactly angels. Sherlock, I don't like what you did. I don't like the fact that so many people died. But if anyone's to blame in this whole situation, it's Moriarty, for putting you and me in that sort of situation.'

'Moriarty's dead, John. So who takes the blame?'

'Nobody!' John shouts, frustrated. 'Nobody has to take the blame! The situation was seriously fucked up and we all did the best we could with it. What's done is done, and it's in the past. I am not going to let Moriarty influence our lives even from beyond the grave. I've gone through too much and gained too much to let that happen.'

'What exactly have you gained, John?'

'You, you absolute prat. Jesus, Sherlock, open your eyes! Why can't you see how much I love you?'

The second the words are out of his mouth, John freezes. So much for waiting for the opportune moment to drop that bombshell on Sherlock. Nervously he drums his fingers against the wood of the floorboards while he waits for the detective to assimilate that particular bit of news. Sherlock doesn't react or say anything for a very long time. A muscle is twitching in his cheek, the only indication that he is deeply agitated.

'Love?' he says at last.

'Yes.'

'You love me?'

John swallows. 'Yes.'

'You're sure?'

'Yes.'

There is silence for another few seconds and then John sees the tears begin to spill down Sherlock's cheeks. Without thinking twice he reaches his arm out and draws Sherlock in towards his chest. The detective hides his face in the fabric of John's shirt and John can feel the material steadily turning damper.

'I don't understand,' Sherlock mutters eventually, his words muffled by John's shoulder. 'How can you say you love me after what I did?' John shrugs, a little confused himself. If it were anyone else, anbody at all, he is sure he would be absolutely disgusted. But somehow Sherlock Holmes has become the only person in his life for who he'd forgive everything. Apparently including torture and murder.

But then, can he say that he is any better? His body count may not be as impressive as Sherlock's but he has killed for the detective and did Sherlock really do any different? The number is greater but the reason is the same. He did it to protect John. John clutches Sherlock tighter and closes his eyes as he thinks about what he would have done in the same situation. It takes him less than three seconds. He would have done the same thing. In a heartbeat. He would have done, will do, anything to keep Sherlock safe and with him.

'I lost you once, I won't lose you again,' he mutters into Sherlock's curls, only aware afterwards that he has spoken aloud. Sherlock pulls away slightly and peers up at him, his tear-drenched eyes slightly confused.

'What?'

'Nothing, just talking to myself.'

Sherlock stares at him a second longer before apparently deciding not to push it, and settles himself back against John's chest.

'I just have one question, Sherlock, and I need you to be honest with me.'

'Of course, John,' Sherlock responds unhesitatingly, pulling away and twisting so that he is sitting facing John.

'The people you killed – were you absolutely certain when you did it that they all belonged to, or had involvement in, Moriarty's network?'

'Yes,' Sherlock replies instantly, his eyes open and honest. John blinks and then nods.

'Fine. Right, well. Shall I put the kettle on?'