The throne came crashing down. Bones rolled across the ground, colliding with the owner's lopped off head. It spun with the added force, but hardly moved from its spot. The blank eyes met John's, and John laughed even more.

He lay on the ice-cold ground, shoulder throbbing and leg still bleeding. Across from him was Yrsadreid, her body still giving off the rotting smell that frequented the Draugr. Sherlock was in front of the collapsed throne, Hircine's spear in his hands. He turned around and looked towards John. "I'm going to burn it all," he said, voice steady.

John laughed again. He struggled to sit up, pain shooting through his leg. He rolled his head on his shoulder. "Yes," was all he said. John lifted a hand, putting all of his weight on his good arm. He let it hover over his wounded leg, the nasty stab right above his knee. Pressing his lips together, he wiggled his fingers, and, soon, his palm began to glow. John watched in fascination as the tear immediately began to heal itself: the skin stitching back together, the redness disappearing before his eyes. He had never seen a cut heal that fast before, especially one of that intensity.

"Everyone wants to heal everyone else, and they forget to think about themselves first. You can't be an adept healer if you aren't taking care of yourself."

He abruptly pulled his hand back when he was finished, keeping it close to his chest. John couldn't help but stare at his leg. He blinked several times before he pressed his hand back against the ground. He stood, then, and after the initial hesitation and a bit of muscle ache, John's leg was completely fine. He could walk without a problem.

Stopping beside Hircine's head, John found himself thanking the Daedric Prince.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked, curiously studying John.

John looked up at him, eyebrows raised. He shrugged and smiled. "Actually, I've never felt better." He moved towards Sherlock, stretching out his hand. "The ring?" Sherlock handed over the item without any objection, smiling softly as John slipped it on. John flexed his fingers and turned his hand over, admiring the band. "Can't even feel it," he said.

"It's a part of you now," Sherlock replied. "How do you feel? Any…" He gestured loosely.

John dropped his hand and shook his head. "Nothing. I feel perfectly fine." He smiled again. "I feel like myself again, well, before I found out I was a bloodthirsty beast." Sherlock laughed, and John turned away, moving back to where he laid—the blood marking his resting place. John grabbed his sword, sliding it back into its sheath, and picked up his helmet, sliding that back on his head. He looked down, then, staring at Yrsadreid. Pursing his lips, John crouched and scooped up the Captain. He held her close and frowned. John lifted a hand to shut her eyes, the light long gone from those honey-colored beauties.

The spear was pressed against John's back. He glanced over to see Sherlock fastening the weapon to him. Sherlock only shook his head. "The Spear of the Hunter. It's yours now, John. You've earned it, along with Hircine's ring." He dropped his gaze to Yrsadreid, frowning slightly.

"She deserves to rest in Hammerfell," John said simply. "And Faeniath. I have to send him a letter."

Sherlock placed a hand on John's shoulder. He squeezed. "I heard."

John readjusted Yrsadreid in his hold, pulling her dangling arm back on her chest. "Burn him." He turned away and started to walk towards the exit. "I'll wait for you outside." John left before Sherlock could reply. He didn't need to. John heard crackling behind him, and the awful smell of flesh burning.

They arrived back to Skaal Village during the night, and John felt quite triumphant, emerging from the forest with a woman in his arms—though she was dead—a spear on his back, and blood covered. Several of the Skaal looked on him with shock, ushering their children away. John didn't pay them any mind.

Sherlock walked ahead of John, moving towards Storn's house. They didn't make it far, for Storn came up behind them. "John," he said, and Sherlock and John turned around to face the shaman. Storn stumbled back, blinking at Yrsadreid. "Who is—?"

"—a friend," John interrupted. "What is it?"

It took a few seconds before Storn could pull his eyes from Yrsadreid. He cleared his throat and stood a little straighter. "The Bloodmoon is gone, and we saw smoke in the air," he explained, tossing a hand towards the sky. John tipped his head back and looked up at the moon. He smiled upon seeing the usual yellow glow. When he returned his attention back to Storn, his eyes were on John's spear. "It is safe to presume, then, that you were successful in your endeavor?"

John nodded, shutting his eyes. "Yes, Hircine is defeated." He opened his eyes and turned, staring at the Skaal who remained. "Hircine is defeated!" he repeated, voice louder. The Skaal immediately began to cheer, reaching over and grabbing each other, clutching their children, their loved ones, anyone who was near.

"The beast is slain!"

"We no longer have to live in fear!"

"The Nord and mage have saved us!"

He stood there, back straight, and looked on the celebrating Skaal. John looked over at Sherlock, seeing him also examining the scene, a hint of tears in his eyes. He didn't bother to wipe them away when he noticed John staring.

John turned back to Storn, dipping his head down so he could hear. "I need a ship and some parchment."

The shaman smiled and bowed. "We can certainly help."

Once on the ship, the captain took Yrsadreid from John, promising to deliver her and the letter to Faeniath in Hammerfell. John returned above deck, to find Sherlock watching the waves. He walked towards him and wrapped his arms around his waist. Sherlock instinctively leaned into John's touch, turning his head to press a kiss to his cheek. "We're going home," he murmured, voice so soft.

John looked up at Sherlock, eyes falling on the large bruise still on his cheek. He lifted his hand and carefully let his fingers hover over the discolored skin. Hand glowing, the bruise was gone within seconds. John lowered his hand, and Sherlock raised his. "You're getting quite good," he mused.

"Where is home?" John asked, looking towards the ocean, too. The weather was clear, the sun peeking through the clouds.

Sherlock was born and raised in Winterhold. John, in Dragon Bridge, but Solitude was where he lived. Sherlock had his parents in Winterhold and his brother in Solitude. John had Harry waiting for him in Solitude, at her apothecary shop, where she had stopped the secret meetings, for John's sake.

Before this ordeal, if someone had told John that his father was alive, and waiting for him to come, then John would have immediately set out to search. Now, he wouldn't have gone after him for anything. He didn't need his father. He had Harry, and, now, he had Sherlock.

Where you were raised or lived didn't define where home was.

Sherlock stared at John, eyes wide. He lowered his hand, taking John's in his own. Threading their fingers together, Sherlock brushed his lips to John's forehead. "With you."

Windhelm brought more celebration. In their absence, the civil war had ended. The rebellion was successful, and Ulfric Stormcloak was the new High King of Skyrim.

John and Sherlock followed the crowds to the Palace of the Kings, where Ulfric himself, along with a woman stood, celebrating, too. Their arms were linked, smiles on their faces.

According to the gossip, the Dragonborn helped Ulfric win the war, so Ulfric took her as his bride. It seemed to be a mutual decision, though.

They made one more stop before Solitude: Riften.

"It was Mara that first gave birth to all of creation and pledged to watch over us as her children. It is from her love of us that we first learned to love one another. It is from this love that we learn that a life lived alone is no life at all."

John tipped his chin up, pursing his lips. Sherlock looked at him, cheeks pink.

"We gather here today, under Mara's loving gaze, to bear witness to the union of two souls in eternal companionship. May they journey forth together in this life and the next, in prosperity and poverty, and in joy and hardship."

Sherlock chuckled, and John shot him a look, before laughing himself.

The priest turned to John, placing his hands in front of him. "Do you agree to be bound together, in love, now and forever?"

John looked at the priest for a second, and then looked over at Sherlock. He studied him for a moment and smiled. "I do. Now and forever."

"Do you agree to be bound together, in love, now and forever?" the priest asked, facing Sherlock now.

The mage, already pink in the face, seemed to be blushing even more. "I do. Now and forever."

"Under the authority of Mara, the Divine of Love, I declare this couple to be wed. I present the two of you with these matching rings, blessed by Mara's divine grace."

Each of them took a ring and slipped it on the other's finger. Sherlock and John met eyes, and John had to bite his lip to resist the urge to laugh again.

"May they protect each of you in your new life together."

Lifting his hands, John pushed Sherlock's robe off of his head. He cupped his face in his hands and kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him.

"John, you loon!" Harry ran towards John, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him into a bone-breaking hug. She squeezed him, rocking them where they stood. "I was wondering when you were going to come back!"

"I'm here now, aren't I?" he said with a laugh. John spun them around, still hugging Harry. "We won, Harry," he whispered.

Harry shut her eyes and nodded into his neck. "I know." She pulled back and smiled at John, lifting a hand to touch his cheek. "Dad fought for this." She glanced over, noticing Sherlock was standing in the doorway. Harry looked at John, eyebrow raised. "Still carting him around?"

"Have to, don't I?" John eased himself from the hug and waved his hands. Harry's eyes fell to the rings on John's hands. First on Hircine's, and then…

Her eyes widened, and she smacked his cheek. "John!"

Weeks after John settled back into Solitude, he received a letter.

Thank you.

Faeniath

A light breeze greeted John when he stepped outside. The city was bustling, children running through the streets, merchants shouting and selling their wares. He almost hated leaving Harry in the shop, but there were only so much blue mountain flowers he could crush, only so many healing potions he could make. Harry was in good hands, though. In his absence, she had acquired the help of a Bosmer alchemist named Annalise. The wood elf seemed interested in Harry's craft, and John only appeared as a burden whenever he stumbled into the shop to help. Still, Annalise allowed him to do menial tasks, since he was Harry's brother.

He traveled through the streets, the sun a welcome feeling on his skin. Ever since his travels, he never damned the sun or the heat. John knew all too well what it was like without any warmth.

It only took a few minutes of weaving in between people before he reached his home. It was a small manor, and he didn't like to admit how much he enjoyed living there while in Harry's presence. She only gave him a bitter look, but reminded him how much she and Annalise loved the shop.

John opened the door and moved into the kitchen, seeing Sherlock sitting at the table. He gave him a look, eyed the paper he was reading, and unhooked his scabbard. Draping it on the hook next to where Sherlock's bow rested, John walked over and checked the pot above the fire. "This better not be burned," he said, shaking his head as he stirred. Sherlock only hummed.

The spear above the hearth was a familiar comfort to John, as he straightened up after stirring. He studied it for a moment before turning and going towards the table. He sat next to Sherlock, hands clasped in front of him. "Harry says hi," he said softly.

"What of Annalise?" Sherlock asked, raising his head from his reading. "Still… bouncing about?"

John laughed, nodding. "Yes, still bouncing," he answered. He wet his lips and pointed a finger at the parchment. "Important?"

Sherlock slid the paper towards John to read, but John's gaze didn't waver from Sherlock's face. "It depends on what you think. I have been corresponding with the Dragonborn."

"The Dragonborn?" John's eyes widened. "How did you manage that?"

"She is a busy woman, I know, but I sent a letter, and she replied." He waved a hand. "Anyway, my initial letter was an inquiry about the Glenmoril Witches." Sherlock surveyed John, who had glanced down at the table, before continuing. "Unlike what we've heard, she has not found and beheaded all of them."

John slowly raised his head from the table. He stared at Sherlock, eyes narrowed. "So they could still be out there."

"Yes."

"At least one witch would serve." He paused. "How could this possibly be important and also not important?"

Sherlock tapped his fingers against the table. "We don't have to find them. You seem to be quite comfortable with the way things are now. Everything has been quiet on the Daedra spectrum on both ends." He tapped his temple. "But I know you still have thoughts, John. This is a way to put an end to them." Sherlock picked up the letter and folded it. "It's up to you. Myself, I'm quite comfortable in this quaint house of ours." He smiled.

John stared at the letter in Sherlock's hold, and then looked down at his own hands. He stretched out his fingers, eyeing the matrimony band on his left hand, Hircine's ring on the right. It seemed to be a part of his skin, now. He didn't want to know what it would be like to remove it. But Sherlock was right: he did still have thoughts. Mostly "what ifs", and Sherlock had often told him that the scenarios he created in his head didn't matter. The present was what mattered. The here, the now.

He sniffed and looked at Sherlock, examining him. Slowly, he smiled. "The stew's going to burn," he said. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed himself out of his chair. He went to the fireplace and took the pot off, moving towards the counter. John looked down at the letter and ran his hands down his face. Some questions were better left unanswered, or answered at another time, when he knew a lot more than he did today.