Hello reader! Absolutely amazed that this is the final chapter! I really hope that you've all enjoyed reading this story because I've certainly enjoyed writing it! Almost four months since I started writing it and it's been quite a ride! A massive thank you to all who have reviewed, favorited and alerted, you really gave me faith in this story! And if you you could give me one final review, you would make me one very happy author! Please enjoy and review!
The white, blinding light pierced his eyes.
Heaven?
No, don't be an idiot John; of course you're not in Heaven.
Slowly widening his heavy eyelids, John quickly shut them again. The excruciating light seared his mind like a hot, serrated knife.
Tentatively, he felt out to the rest of his body. Every fibre of his flesh ached, groaning painfully, lethargic with drowsiness.
Pain killers.
Pain killers meant hospital.
Slowly, bit by bit, John opened his eyes. He blinked several times, the light searing circles into his tender eyes.
Looking down, he saw crisp, starchy sheets wrapped tightly around his middle. A drip hung off his arm. Plump pillows supported his aching neck.
His legs felt particularly heavy, and thicker than usual.
Obviously John. You were burnt.
Wait. Why wasn't he still burning?
He felt a presence beside him, a pair of mysterious eyes boring into his side.
Slowly, he rotated his head.
And almost jumped in the air when he came face to face with Mycroft, staring at him intently.
John opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his parched throat.
"Water." Mycroft said it not as a question, but as a statement.
A few minutes later, a hand that John could only presume to be 'Anthea's', handed Mycroft a full glass of water. Mycroft in turn gently passed the glass to John, who grasped it between his hands, lifting it to his cracked lips. The cool, crisp liquid flowed down his throat, reinvigorating his mind.
"Now, Dr Watson, how do you feel?"
"Where am I?"
"A hospital. Private, I can assure you. Now, how are you feeling?"
"How did I get here?"
"That was not my question Dr Watson."
"I feel fine. Now tell me, how did this happen?"
"I believe you have Irene Adler to thank for your survival. And Sherlock's. For that I shall be eternally grateful for her. My brother has the rather annoying habit of getting himself into the most precarious of scrapes, as no doubt you will know."
"You mean she put out the fire?"
Mycroft nodded.
John's mind flashed back to the broken and wounded image of Sherlock.
"Where's Sherlock?"
Mycroft gestured behind him, shifting his wide frame slightly as to offer John a glimpse of Sherlock. He lay there peacefully, eyes closed, chest rising and falling evenly. He looked only slightly paler than usual, but only the heavy bandages around his middle indicated the severe injury he had suffered.
John had never seen Sherlock look quite so innocent before.
"How is he?"
"Sherlock is quite stable. If you had woken a few hours early, you would have seen him walking around. Sherlock is persistently stubborn when he puts his mind to it."
John chuckled weakly. "Don't I know it."
He looked over at the Sherlock, but all he could see was the gaping wound Irene had left.
Why would she do that?
Moriarty's words slipped back into his mind.
'I have your sister.'
So Irene had a sister.
What if Moriarty had blackmailed Irene into doing all she had done?
The thought gave John a small slice of relief. But it only eased the gaping wound that Irene's departure had left.
She was the only woman he had ever truly loved, even if she had never loved him back.
The revelation burnt him more than Moriarty's flames ever had.
"Now I may not be a doctor John, but I advise you to sleep. You need it."
John felt rather like a child, but did not object. Instead he merely leant back into the pillows, and closed his eyes.
The sound of gentle breathing filled John's ears, and slowly he prised open his eyelids.
Much to his surprise, Sherlock sat on the chair Mycroft had previously occupied, and his chocolate curls sprawled across John's starch white sheets, contrasting like night and day. His head lay very gentle over John's stomach, and his breath tickled John's exposed skin. He remained very still, not wanting to spoil Sherlock's peace. He maintained his regular breathing, and was about to close his eyes when he heard Sherlock begin to talk.
At first he thought it was directed at him, but then he realised Sherlock was talking to himself. His voice barely rose above a whisper, and John strained his ears to hear.
"I'm so sorry John. For everything. I didn't mean for you to get hurt. I didn't mean to kiss Irene. I don't know why I did it in the first place. For a sociopathic genius I'm so stupid. But I paid for my stupidity in the end. I had to watch you burn. I'm so sorry, so, so, sorry John."
Much to John's shock, a small sob broke out from Sherlock, and his lean frame began to quiver.
John debated whether to comfort him or not. He knew what Sherlock's pride and dignity meant to him, knowing that he had seen Sherlock like this would be humiliating beyond belief. But he didn't want to let him cry alone.
In the end, he let himself lie there as Sherlock shuddered. He felt such a coward, but did not want to admit to witnessing Sherlock's moment of weakness. It had truly shocked him that Sherlock cared so much for him that he would cry for him.
In the end he let the black abyss of sleep reign over his mind.
It was the fragrant smell that awoke him next.
Irene.
"John." Irene's lyrical whisper filled the now dark hospital room.
John struggled to find words, so he remained silent.
"I just came to say how sorry I am for what I've done. Please forgive me."
John nodded, words threatening to tumble out all at once.
"Moriarty had my sister; I had to do anything he said. It was Mycroft that saved her, and I came after him. You understand why I did what I did, don't you?"
"Of course Irene. It's okay." John finally managed to whisper.
"Good." Irene's eyes glistened with tears, and her blue eyes sparkled in the moonlight, which shone through the window as bright as the sun.
"I guess this is goodbye then." John whispered hoarsely.
"Goodbye John." Irene leant forward, and tentatively planted a kiss on his lips. "I will always love you."
"Goodbye Irene."
And with that she was gone.
John sighed, and looked over at the sleeping figure of Sherlock, curled up under the sheets in the foetus position. His eyes burned raw.
A slow, steady tear trickled down his cheek as he closed his eyes.
It was many weeks before John was allowed to return home to Baker Street.
But he and Sherlock recuperated quickly, and soon life returned to normal.
Well, as normal as life could ever get if you lived with Sherlock.
They rarely mentioned Moriarty, and if ever referring to Irene, it would always be under the title 'The Woman.' As they retold the tale to Mrs Hudson, it was under the title 'When John Met the Woman.'
And when John courageously wrote of the tale in his blog a few years later, it would be under the same name.
Even in one small, burnt room of John's heart the plaque read 'The Woman.'
And John knew he had never loved one woman so much.
Finis
