Author Note: This is the final chapter, more of an epilogue really. Thanks again to all my reviewers and to those who have followed and favorite'd my story. You are inspirational.

I don't own Sherlock.

One week later, John realized he'd gone two entire hours without a single craving for heroin. Of course, realizing this made him crave, but it was still a victory.

He sat on the couch in his flat, waiting for Sherlock to finish some experiment at St. Bart's so they could go get Chinese. Sherlock wouldn't let him come on cases yet, not while John was still using his cane to get from one room to the other.

Not that his feet hadn't healed nicely. Molly had done excellent work. His feet would scar, of course, in a pattern that was going to be very difficult to explain to any dates John wanted to have. Just thinking about it made him flush.

He wasn't gay. Whatever had inspired him to carve Sherlock's name into his feet wasn't lust. It was, John realized, the same inspiration that kept him feeling rather content here in his flat. Before he'd met Sherlock, he'd also sat by himself in an empty flat. But now his life had some meaning, meaning that Sherlock had given. Sherlock was his brother, his comrade-in-arms.

Anyway, John thought a little smugly, he suspected that if Sherlock was going to carve a name into his own feet, that name would be John's. They might not be in love with each other, but they belonged to each other all the same. Two halves of the same coin (an effective, efficient, crime-solving, music-playing, experimenting, annoying coin). They even both had track mark scars on their arms now.

It had taken three days to wean John off the heroin, three days of Sherlock shooting him with smaller and smaller doses. He knew, now, what Sherlock had gone through on his own all those years ago before John had met him. He knew, now, what Lestrade had done for Sherlock after finding him as a wasted teenager. John could understand, at least in some small way, why Sherlock needed something to distract him, always and eternally, from the cravings.

One thing he did not know was why Sherlock hadn't come after him when he'd first disappeared. He'd asked Sherlock one night, but Sherlock had just mumbled something about texts and changed the subject. John didn't press. He could always check Sherlock's phone if the curiosity overcame him. But he didn't really want to know. Whatever demons Sherlock was dealing with, Sherlock would have to deal with them alone.

John had his own.

The craving amped up a notch. Fortunately, Sherlock came bounding in through the door at that exact moment. He was dressed in surgeon's scrubs and covered in blood. The look in his eyes was triumphant. Whatever the experiment was, it must have gone well, even if Sherlock looked like he'd been working at the A&E all day (surely he hadn't; the A&E doctors knew better than to let Sherlock even stop through the door). Sherlock's eyes were bright with excitement.

"Hungry?" Sherlock asked.

John grinned. Everything was going to be alright. "Starving."

AN: And we're done! I can't believe how fast this thing went together in my head. I wrote the entire thing in just over one week. Part of that is because of you, dearest readers. You are fantastic. I salute you all. I am probably going to write a couple of one-shots next, in John's head (which is where I most like to play). If you have any suggestions, I would love to hear them. In the meantime, please review and tell me what you thought.