Author's note: This is the last chapter! Thanks to CowMow for being my beta and an amazing friend (go and check on her stories, she's amazing!). Also, thanks to everyone who read and followed this.

Apologies in advance for my mistakes, thanks for reading and please review!

CHAPTER XX:

The real RocknRolla

It turned out that JA and Sidney Shaw, as it was printed in the papers Irene had given Harry and John Watson's gang were no one but Anderson and Sally. They were the two informants who had been giving the police information about their movements, their criminal activity and whereabouts for months. Johnny-boy and Harry were the two people who they had been ratting so far. The next one was going to be the corrupt DI of the Scotland Yard Greg Lestrade and Consulting Accountant and Financial Manager Sherlock Holmes.

The dirty rats. Johnny, Harry and Greg had no trouble making themselves sure no one ever saw Anderson and Sally and their seven percent stronger ever again.

What happened later is a not-so-funny tale.

Sherlock had indeed taught Molly how to shoot and she managed to kill Sebby Moran while John took good care of the other henchman. At the end of the day John only had a sprained arm and a bruised eye.

Mycroft managed to get everything fixed and pretty for the press.

Irene's funeral was private. The only ones present were the widower Sherlock Holmes and his brother, his ex- PA Molly Hooper, John and Harry Watson and Greg Lestrade. They all gave the widower their silent 'I'm sorry for your loss's. John barely glanced at Sherlock who seemed quite concentrated on the coffin.

Sherlock didn't cry, not in front of everyone but a bit in his moments of solitude. He was very fond of Irene and he never lied when in her last moments he said she was the only woman he would ever love. Irene had showed him great things that could be done in bed and she was always smiling at him, playing the good wife when he needed to be cheered up and she was quite a good dancer. Irene always made him feel proud of her: she was clever, posh, elegant. Irene Adler was the perfect wife everyone wanted to have.

And she had been his wife.

Sherlock left red roses on the graves. After all, they were Sarah and Irene's favourites.

And then, just like that, he got into rehab. He promised Irene he would get clean and be a good man.

And that was exactly what he was going to do.

For three years Sherlock learnt what cocaine does to a man: he suffered, he begged for it and he went through the worst of it.

Johnny-boy and his gang got rid of quite a number of criminals all around Europe. Some of them were nastily killed, some others gave up easily and just a bullet in their heads was enough. Just a small number tried to escape and almost managed to do so until John had a gun in is hand aiming at their heads.

For three years John didn't visit Sherlock. They didn't see each other for all that time. They didn't write, sent letter nor they called each other for Christmas, birthdays, etc.

The only one who visited Sherlock was Molly. She always brought her ex-employer chocolates, the cigarettes he liked, books and petri dishes and lab equipment now that the ex consulting accountant took up a new hobby: chemistry and experiments. Sherlock Holmes liked to read books about mysteries and criminals and since Molly finally found a job in which she could do what she had studied for, what she liked, she managed to get Sherlock toes, fingers, eyeballs and sometimes a hand, a feet, an entire chest and even once a whole body. All human of course.

"You are a graduated pathologist, of course." Sherlock realised after years and years of knowing Molly Hooper.

Molly smiled. "I'm working at Bart's. At the mortuary. It's nice."

"I'm very happy for you, Molly Hooper," Sherlock said, honestly. "And you're seeing someone."

"His name's Tom," she blushed. "He's nice."

Sherlock never asked about John. He never did. He liked to sit, have tea, eat cookies and listen to Molly's stories about her work, her colleagues, Tom and the world outside. The ex-consulting accountant was amazed by all the things he discovered about Molly Hooper, the woman who had been his PA and toy for years and years. Apparently Molly liked cats, wearing flat shoes an comfy clothes but she had always hated high heels and tight dresses. She now wore no make up at all and she looked prettier than before, when she wore lipstick, eye-liner, mascara and blush.

Sherlock liked this Molly. She was funny, knew good jokes and she had a warm heart. The ex-consulting accountant discovered Molly was a good woman and actually, he realised she had always been. He regretted doing all the things he did to her such as making her kiss him, forcing her to have sex with him when he wanted to and so on. He knew she had a crush on him when he employed her. But after years and years together Molly Hooper had fallen in love with him. Sherlock realised Molly had always faked fighting him, when she actually let him have sex with her, use her body; all because she loved him.

Molly deserved best. She deserved all the things she had now: a job as a pathologist, her boyfriend Tom, her cat Toby and her nice little flat in the city.

One day, when Molly brought him flowers, a custard cream cake, a new book and ten toes for him to experiment with, Sherlock decided to ask. A year and a half later, after the Irish incident, after Sarah and Irene's deaths, after John had killed Sally and Anderson for betraying them Sherlock finally asked Molly about John.

"He's fighting Moriarty's men."

"I know that," Sherlock growled. "But... how's he?"

John. He really missed John. Sherlock never felt true love until now that he was locked up in a clinic trying to get clean and John was far, so far away from him that it hurt.

He had felt something like that before, when he married Irene and she was in Australia and he was in New York. He had missed her, and not only her body and the sexual attraction they had for each other but he also missed her company. Irene was a clever woman with whom he could perfectly have a chat and drink tea and even laugh.

With John everything was different because they only had a few moments together. They only had sex once, they only went for dinner once and they always talked about business. Sherlock didn't know what John was like in the mornings, what kind of sport John preferred. He could deduce everything he wanted, but what Sherlock wanted was to know. He wanted t discover all those things by himself and not use his brain just once.

Sherlock wanted a life with John Watson.

Molly smiled. She took one of Sherlock's hand and caressed his knuckles with her thumb. "He's fine. He says he will wait for you."

Sherlock promised Molly he will get clean.

And asked her to come the day of his release.

Well, that's what three years inside does to a man. It eats away at his soul. And when it's all gone, it makes a man quite scary. You ever wonder how you got in there? What grass informed on you?

That morning Sherlock put on his purple shirt of sex, the very same one he was wearing the day he and John had sex, dark trousers, a dark jacket, dark shoes, his long coat and tied his blue scarf around his neck. No underwear at all. What for anyway? He knew John would pull at his clothes as soon as they saw each other.

Three years.

Three fucking years and he was clean.

Three fucking years and John got rid of Moriarty's men.

"Hello John."

John smiled. He smiled in the way he knew Sherlock liked. "Hello, Sherlock. Look at you, huh? Good as new."

Sherlock had put on weight thanks to Molly's cakes. Getting clean implied gaining weight, eating more and smoking more. But at least he was clean. His sharp cheekbones were now fuller and pink. His shirts were tight now and Sherlock caught John staring.

"And you," Sherlock breathed. "You look rather pleased."

Behind John were DI Greg Lestrade, Molly, Harry Watson and Mycroft. The last person Sherlock wanted to see was Mycroft, but oh well, he was his brother after all.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I said I only wanted you to come."

"Don't be cheeky. Get in the car," John commanded and winked at him.

Sherlock blushed. "I wanted you to come for me."

"I will," John winked, turned to see Molly, Greg and Mycroft behind him and everyone started to get into their cars, everyone but Greg who seemed to have something in his car, something for Sherlock. "Now, I've got something for you," John whispered and gestured Sherlock to look behind him.

Greg was holding something covered with a dark fabric and as soon as John pulled it away, Sherlock's eyes widened.

He loved it. He had no words to describe how much he loved John's present.

"Now, that must've been expensive."

John chuckled. "As it happens, it did cost a very wealthy Irish his life."

"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now."

Greg cleared his throat and looked expectantly for any possible question journalists could ask.

"Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?"

Ah, here we go. "Well, they all took the same poison; um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be; none of them had shown any prior indication of -"

"But you can't have serial suicides," the journalist said.

"Well, apparently you can." Lestrade said and sighed inwardly. Fucking journalists.

Another journalist spoke. "These three people: there's nothing that links them?"

"There's no link been found yet, but we're looking for it. There has to be one."

Everybody's phone chimed. Even Lestrade's.

Wrong!

Fucking Sherlock Holmes.

And then, another one.

You know where to find me
SH

Bloody hell.

"Looked at your website," John said dressing after a long session of lazy and great sex. "The Science of Deduction?"

Sherlock couldn't help but smile proudly. "What did you think?"

Soon that smile disappeared when John looked at him. "Sherlock... You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

Bloody hell, yes. "Yes. And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your sister's still drinking habits and -"

"How?"

They had been together for months now and John still couldn't understand Sherlock's exceptional and brilliant deductive skills. He could tell when someone lied, he could tell a lot of things by just looking and even after being together for all these months, John was still surprised every time Sherlock said something.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

Ah, Mrs Hudson, John's landlady. The lovely old lady who prepared them breakfast, cleaned their flat, made them tea even when she said she was their landlady, not their housekeeper and walked in on them every now and then. She said they should do 'those things' at night and not when she was about to clean their flat or make tea.

The truth is that they couldn't keep their hands off each other.

"Four." Sherlock put on his jacket and pulled the zip of his expensive trousers up. "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

The landlady blushed when she realised what her tenants had been up to. "A fourth?"

Ah, there he was. The Detective Inspector of the Scotland Yard who retired himself from the criminal activities, like John and Harry and who now was honest.

Well, when you say honest.

"Where?"

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?"

Sherlock nodded and glanced at John who was comfortably sitting on his chair with a cup of tea. "Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?"

Sherlock waited until Lestrade was gone to jump all around the living room like a child in Christmas day. Because, well, it was bloody Christmas day for bloody Sherlock Holmes. Four suicides? God, it was more than Christmas day.

Sherlock Holmes was now a Consulting Detective. He told John about Irene's words and soon after he was released from that clinic where he got clean, he set up his detective business. Some clients visited 221 B Baker Street hoping Sherlock would find out whether their husbands or wives were cheating on them, where their missing cats were, etc.

John liked living with Sherlock. It was nice to have such clever man around, especially when you're in love with him. Even though John feared Sherlock may get bored and leave, Sherlock assured John he would never leave. He liked this new simple life, living in a small flat rather than in a house with seven rooms. He liked taking cabs more than having a car and a driver. Sherlock liked eating John's food rather than the one the maid prepared for him before. And Sherlock loved, absolutely loved the Chinese down the road and didn't miss those posh restaurants he used to go to.

"So, Consulting Detective, huh?" John said once Sherlock returned to get his blue scarf.

"You're a doctor. And an ex-criminal too."

"Yes."

"Any good?"

"Very good," John kissed Sherlock and slid a hand under his trousers. "Stole an Irish fourteen million once."

Sherlock moaned. "Seen a lot of injuries, then... violent deaths."

"Mmm, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet."

John licked the detective's throat. "Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Wanna see some more?"

"Oh God, yes."

"It could be dangerous." Sherlock warned John playfully.

"Well, that was when I was a RocknRolla," John almost moaned when he felt Sherlock's impossible long fingers stroking his hard cock.

"Why, what are you now, John?"

"I'm the real RocknRolla."

The end.