Okay guys, this is it. The last chapter. (Well, I'll write an epilogue of course.)

I'm so grateful to you guys for sticking with me and reading my crappy story.

If you want any more of my stuff, my tumblr is ACRwritings c:

I hope you enjoy this last chapter. I enjoyed writing this whole story. Mostly virgin!Sherlock and unrequited!John and yes.

Uh, there is a quick Warning. This chapter does contain a sex scene.

Its nothing too smutty. But it is sex. So.

Enjoy!

-ACR

Day Seven

There was an island, two islands, so many small islands that they stretched off into the distance until John couldn't see them anymore. All linked together by wooden bridges. Strung along the trees were hundreds of white lanterns, so many. Johns feet were bare, as they walked along the wood and the grass, crossing island to island and looking up at the dark sky.

At some point, he stopped, which made the world shudder. His sister was sitting there, on a little bench. She was wearing a plain white dress, which didn't seem like something she would do. He watched her.

"Harry, what are you doing?" He said. He was surprised of how his voice sounded.

"Waiting for you, of course."

"Why?"

"John, I grew up with you." She smiled at him, "But you are a man now. Keep walking."

So he did. Along his way he began to catch glimpses of faces, people he knew and people he used to know. People who were acquaintances, people he didn't like at all, his family and his friends. And they started to follow him, along the bridges. He wondered where he was going, in the back of his mind, he knew.

On the last island, he found Sherlock.

He was wearing a white suit, something John had never seen before but he liked. He approached him and didn't even have to think; he kissed him there, in front of everyone he knew or used to know. He would kiss Sherlock in front of the world for everyone to see; because this was him now. A part of someone else, someone he could love until his death. That was who he always wanted to be.

"What are we doing here?" He asked, pulling away.

"Getting married, remember?" In this world, Sherlocks voice was a deep echo.

"Here? In front of everyone?"

"I wouldn't do it anywhere else."

John's eyes flew open, and he sat up, gripping his chest. His heart was racing, his face was red. One of those dreams that felt so real, when you wake up it's still right there. He let out a few breaths and looked around. Sherlock was sitting up, looking weirdly at him.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock glanced around, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," John let out a breath of relief, "I'm okay. Just a dream."

"A nightmare?"

"No," John smiled, "Just a dream."

"Oh," Sherlock laid back down, "A good dream?"

"More or less," John leaned back with him.

"Can I ask what it was about?"

"God no. So embarrassing." John shook his head.

"Oh," Sherlock laughed, and then a look of understanding spread across his features, "Ohh..."

"Not like that," John rolled his eyes.

"Then what?"

"I just said I can't tell you."

"Please?"

"No," John sat up and looked at the clock. Eight, "Don't you need to go soon?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and frowned, "I guess."

"You don't have to go, you know." John was hopeful for it.

"And miss meeting Sebastian Moran? I wouldn't dream of it." Sherlock muttered. John couldn't tell if it was sarcasm.

"I'm just saying," John sat down, "You don't always have to be clever. You don't always have to know. It might be your downfall."

"Not today."

"Okay," He stood up and left the room, "Want any breakfast?"

"No."

"Of course not." John left the room.

Sherlock turned over and sighed deeply. Another night of nightmares, not enough sleep. He just wanted to sleep, now. But it wasn't the time. He stood up and got dressed in the best suit he had packed, and left the room.

The kitchen was full of people bustling around and cooking and talking so Sherlock went to the sofa and sat down next to Mycroft.

"Ready for today?" His brother sipped his tea and asked.

"No," Sherlock leaned forward and took the newspaper away from him.

"I can come, keep an eye on you."

"No, I have to do this alone." He opened it, but didn't really read. Just thought.

Mycroft changed the subject, "Tomorrow you'll go home. Are you thrilled?"

"Thrilled to sleep in a real bed, perhaps."

"And then Wednesday the world finds out you are alive…"

"Please stop talking, you're distracting me."

Mycroft chuckled. John came in and handed a cup of coffee to Sherlock, who accepting it hungrily. Then he sat down and looked over them.

"Tonight's our last night here, then?" John offered a smile which they both ignored.

"Indeed, we were just talking about that." Mycroft said.

"Just excited to sleep in my own bed."

"My bed," Sherlock looked at him.

John smiled. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

They sat for a few minutes and Sherlock finished his coffee, standing up.

"We should go. Mycroft, you'll drive me there?"

"Yes," Mycroft stood, "Let's go."

John followed them out the door and into the yard. He wondered if Sherlock was going to say goodbye or just go. Maybe it would be easier to just go. But what if John never saw him again? It ate at his stomach.

In the yard, though, Sherlock stopped and held out his hand to stop John. He waited until Mycroft was in the car and turned to him.

"In case I don't come back-"

"You will." John stared up at him through his lashes, "You will."

Sherlock searched his face, "You're right."

"It was a wedding." John looked away.

"What?"

"My dream. We got married. How stupid is that?"

Sherlock laughed and looked down at him, "It's not stupid."

And then he kissed him, just like that. With Mycroft looking, maybe the others were inside looking too, but Sherlock kissed him. John felt his face getting hot, he kind of wanted to cry. But he didn't.

Sherlock pulled away, "Tonight?"

Johns stomach jumped. Right; the promise. "Tonight."

Sherlock gave him one last smile and turned away, going to the door and getting in. And then the black car drove away, just like that.

John sighed. His stomach was knotting and his eyes were burning. He turned and walked inside, without looking at anyone, and went back to bed. If he could sleep through this, he'd be okay.

Sherlock didn't say anything on the ride, despite Mycroft critical stares through the mirror. Finally his brother spoke.

"How are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Being… Intimate. I didn't think you could."

"Me neither."

"But you are."

Sherlock stared out of the window, "Things changed."

"Do you want to explain that to me more?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Not really any of your business."

"You're my brother. I care."

"Since when?" Sherlock laughed harshly, then stopped, "No, sorry. I shouldn't say that. It's just different, isn't it?"

"You're different."

"I love him," Sherlock smiled, "If I'm a fool for that, then so be it."

"You aren't a fool. You simple have... A weakness."

They didn't say anything after that. They pulled up to the spot, the park. There were a few kids playing, but it was mostly empty. Maybe because the grey skies threatened to rain.

"This is it," Sherlock said, opening the door.

"Call me when you're done," Mycroft tapped the wheel, "Good luck."

Sherlock shut the door and walked into the park. He considered sitting down, but he felt too nervous. So he stood on the edge of the park and looked over the children. As a child, he hated other kids. And they hated him. To this day he didn't like children, they were sticky and screaming. He didn't even think babies were cute. A waste of time and money.

It was a while before he became aware of the man standing next to him.

"Good morning," He let out deeply, not turning to look.

"Good day, Mr. Holmes." His accent was British, but something else too, underneath it.

He turned to look at him.

Recently shaven and his blonde hair was trimmed, but within the last few days.

Very expensive suit, but very old and outdated. Purposely like that, though, something he liked. He also had a pocket watch, which was engraved with the surname "Moran", though it obviously was a family heirloom.

His eyes were a shocking green, but his skin was pale.

He wore one ring, a silver band with a lot of interlocking chains. It was too big for him, not his. In fact, Sherlock had seen it before.

He had a tattoo, just one. Potentia in cursive writing across his wrist.

His hands were rough, course, the only part of his body that looked like they had done work.

"Tell me what you see," Sebastian pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, not offering one to Sherlock.

"You're here alone, which is interesting for someone of your power," Sherlock muttered, "Which means a few things. One, no one knows you're meeting me here. However, you could still have bodyguards with you but you chose not to. Which means you either trust me completely or trust your ability to take me down if I chose to try and kill you. I'd go with the latter. Judging on your hands, you're sufficient at hand-to-hand combat, but even more handy with a gun. In fact I'm guessing you have one on you right now."

"Lovely," He let out a harsh laugh, "But I was hoping you'd go deeper. How do you know I have power?"

"You're wearing a suit that's older then you are. Between your shoes and that, you're obviously extremely wealthy. Probably someone who is often in the eyes of the media, since you've grown your own style of clothing you're comfortable with. However, you're very young. Twenty-seven, if I am correct. So you yourself aren't powerful, but you are a descendant of power; as the engraving on your pocket watch tells me. Your father, is it? I've heard the name Moran before so that's a given anyway; your father is the ambassador from Russia. You yourself aren't Russian, I see more German in you. In fact I'd go so far as to say you aren't you fathers birth-son at all. Your mother could have had an affair, but I doubt your father would give much money to a bastard son. So, adopted? More likely. I'm guessing your father can't have any children."

"So far, so correct, except I've just turned twenty-eight." Sebastian tapped the ashes from his cigarette, "However, most of that someone could have found on the internet. Tell me something the press don't know."

"Gladly. You currently have a girlfriend, correct? I'm guessing she's British, because the relationship is solely built on looking good in public. You don't like her at all. You haven't had a lover in a very long time. You're more into material things, aren't you? Not the weakness of love. Your tattoo, it's Latin for 'power', something you take pride in. I can tell you have killed a lot of people, I can see it in your eyes. You have a lot of men working under you. What are you, a drug dealer? Part of the mafia? You run on the thrill of danger."

"Nothing fun about doing drugs at all, or selling them. I don't need the money," He squashed the butt into the ground, "Killing people, that's a rush. And gambling. I'm not a cheat but I don't often lose."

Sherlock searched him, "And you aren't here to kill me."

"As you said, I have a gun, so how can you be so sure?" Sebastian's eyes lit up.

"For a precaution, maybe. You knew where I was, which can only mean you've been watching my friends, more closely than anyone else. I'd say you've been watching them for a while, in fact. If you wanted me dead, I have a feeling I'd be dead already."

"Very good!" Moran laughed, "So, then the big question is…"

"Why you asked me to come." Sherlock locked his eyes.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes," He smiled and walked around until he was in front of him, "You're just as clever as they told me. But after all, you outsmarted Jim Moriarty; so how could I expect anything less?"

"I didn't outsmart him," Sherlock frowned, "In the end; he got bored of me and shot himself in the head. You and I both know if he found it fun, we'd both still be trying to outsmart each other to this day."

"I was never one for Jims games. They required a whole lot of thinking, not nearly enough doing. He always was crazy; I should have known he would be the one to kill himself for a game." Moran looked distant for a moment.

"And what was your relationship with Moriarty, exactly? I'm a bit hazy on the details."

"Rivals. From a very young age, in fact. How many times did I hold a gun to his head while he laughed at me and threatened to have my family killed? Too many times… All in good fun, of course. He needed someone to kill people for him; I was more than happy to pull the trigger. Of course, I found better work and we… Well, we moved on. Him to death and me to a happy and danger-filled life."

"So, why am I here then?" Sherlock moved and sat down on the bench, Moran taking the seat next to him.

"I wanted to thank you. For killing the one person who stood between me and the high score."

"If I killed Moriarty, doesn't that put me on top?"

"Oh, you just like to solve crimes and play with that little pet of yours; Watson, is it? No offense, but to me, you aren't even in the game."

Sherlock grew slightly rigid at the mention of John, "What is it you want, Sebastian?" His name was venom.

"To deliver a fair warning. My new level in this occupation means I'll be on top of the criminal world right as you're coming back into it. I doubt our paths with cross, but if they do I just wanted to say; as long as you keep your fingers out of my pie, I'll keep mine out of yours."

"A threat," Sherlock leaned back, "There it is."

"Not a threat at all; a simple warning. Jim made it his mission to play with you, and look where he is now; six feet under. I respect you as a very intelligent man, Sherlock, and I don't want to mess with you. So in exchange, please respect me as a dangerous one, and know that if you get in my way, there will be a consequence."

"So why not kill me now? Why not just get rid of me and never have to worry about me getting in your way?"

"Your existence benefits me quite a bit, actually. You re-appearing will cause a large fuss. It's been rather boring while you were gone; not nearly enough people want other people dead to get you to chase them."

Sherlock stood up, "I understand our position."

Sebastian joined him, "I'm very glad we could come to an agreement. Anything else to say before I depart? There are people to kill."

Sherlock considered just walking away, but he turned to the slim man next to him, "You made a mistake."

"Excuse me?"

"That ring." He gestured towards it, "I've seen it before. In video's of 'Richard Brook'. It belonged to Moriarty."

Moran's face paled.

"You say your relationship with him was rarely friendly, even professional. But I don't think it was even platonic, was it? You loved him, so much you kept his ring. And I'm the reason he's dead. You're being merciful, giving me the chance to walk away. And if I do get in your way, it isn't me you'll come for. A lover for a lover." Sherlock approached him, until only a threatening inch was between them, "But I killed Moriarty, solved all of his games. The man who never got bored, and I stumped him. So let me tell you this, Sebastian Moran. If you lay even a finger on John Watson, I will hunt you down. I will torture you until you beg for mercy, and then I will string you up as a disgrace for the entire world to see."

Before Sebastian could even reply, Sherlock turned heel and marched away.

"Good to know we're on the same page, then." He called. Sherlock ignored him.

A half-block away, he pulled out his phone and called Mycroft.

"Sherlock? Is everything alright?" He asked cautiously.

"It's fine. I'm going to walk there, just letting you know it's fine."

"Doesn't sound fine."

"He just threatened me. What I assumed would happen. I'll be back soon."

He hung up quickly.

John was fast asleep and under the fall of dreams. In a dream, everything was pretty and he didn't have to worry. The polar opposite of the nightmares he had suffered from.

Sherlock came into their room just as it had started to rain outside. He knelt down on the bed and leaned down, kissing him on the forehead. Johns eyes fluttered open. Sherlock leaned down once more and kissed the pale lips, spreading them. He caught Johns tongue and sucked gently, letting it fall and doing it again. John let out a little whimper underneath him, and Sherlock felt a fire ignite inside of him. He pulled himself over John and kept kissing him, letting his hand trail between his companion's legs, gripping him over his pants.

"Ah!" John moaned, "Sherlock, I don't have a condom."

"I do," he breathed. He had, in fact, thought ahead. He leaned over to the tiny table by the bed and opened the first drawer, seeing the condoms immediately. He grabbed one and pulled back, meeting Johns eyes.

"Are you sure about this?" John lifted his hand and touched the pale face, inches from his.

"I'm sure. But…"

"But?"

"I need to say something," he sat back, "If you ever die… I don't think I can continue living. I want you to know I'll be close behind."

John gulped. He had never known of any love that was more centered on death than theirs, "Me too."

"You're my family," Sherlock stared at him, "All of them, they are a family to me, but you're the real… You're…"

"I know." John whispered.

Sherlock rested his head on Johns chest, and then started to kiss him there, gently, soft. John sat up and pushed Sherlock down, pulling off his own shirt and kissing him deeply. He pushed a knee upwards and Sherlock let out a little gasp. John smirked and trailed his fingers around Sherlocks hands until he found the condom. He pulled it away from him, noting that it was the type with lube already on.

"I'm gonna try to make you feel really good, okay?" John bit down on Sherlocks neck, "But if it hurts, tell me and I'll stop."

"Okay," Sherlock muttered. He was nervous, scared. John touched his face once, trying to tell him it would be okay, before beginning to unbutton Sherlocks trousers.

The pants were off in a few simple movements, his shirt halfway unbuttoned. John leaned up and tore open the condom with his teeth while Sherlock began fumbling at Johns pants. He put on the condom while Sherlock watched, breathing in and out, a mixture of lust and fear.

John wet his fingers in his mouth and slid them under Sherlock, stretching him. Sherlock gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the blankets underneath them.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes," Sherlock had never sounded more weak.

"Do you want me to stop?" John whispered.

"No, never."

John stretched more. Two fingers, completely inside, and then three. Sherlock was making ungodly whimpers that made John too hard to think clearly. But he did, he thought through it so he wouldn't go too fast. So he wouldn't break the fragile person who put all his trust in him.

"Put it in," Sherlock moaned, "I can't take it anymore."

John nodded. He pulled out his fingers and hoisted Sherlocks hips up. He aligned himself and caught Sherlocks eyes. He tried to communicate 'are you sure', to which Sherlock just nodded.

John pushed in. Sherlocks eyes flew open and so did his mouth, like he was going to scream, but he didn't.

It was so tight John thought he might explode. He let out a moan and looked at the blue eyes, he leaned closer and kissed the lips. He pulled back and pushed in again, starting a slow thrust. Sherlock was gasping underneath him, looking into his eyes. He reached up and grabbed the headboard.

John breathed through it, trying to keep in mind there were people nearby.

"Fuck," John breathed, "This is hard."

Sherlock laughed, it sounded strangled, and then he looked at him, "Harder. Please."

John looked doubtful but pushed in harder, faster.

It felt amazing, in all honesty. John was pretty sure he had never felt better, and most of that was probably because it was with Sherlock. John thought maybe he should have felt weirder about this, because he had never actually had sex with a man before. But to him, it wasn't sex with a man. It was sex with Sherlock. Someone he loved so much, it hurt him. He just hoped it felt as good for him.

Sherlock didn't know how to feel about the waves of pleasure and pain washing over him. He was almost embarrassed, he had nothing protecting him. Not clothes or any walls to his personality, not right now. He was laid out; every emotion he so direly hated and every moment of weakness, John would see it all. But at the same time he felt so close, closer than he had ever been with anyone before. And it wasn't bad, just different. He wondered how he could ever be the same. He arched and his stomach boiled.

"John-"

"I know," John squeezed shut his eyes and grabbed Sherlocks hand, "Me too. Five more seconds, and we'll do it together, okay? One, two, three…."

"Four," Sherlock gasped, "Five."

John came hard and Sherlock came on his own stomach. He let go of the headboard and fell, limp, breathing hard.

John sighed, pulled out, and fell down next to him. He yanked the condom off and tossed it to the floor. He breathed in and out, listening to Sherlock and watching his chest rise up and down.

"Are you okay?" John gulped.

"That was," Sherlock closed his eyes, "Informational."

John leaned over and left a kiss on his cheek, keeping his face there. After a few seconds Sherlock turned to look at him. Then he kissed him. It was probably just a normal kiss, but it meant so much more now.

"I need a cigarette," John said.

Sherlock laughed, it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

"I'd go get some from Lestrade but that might require putting on pants."

"True. What time is it?"

"Like, noon."

"Wow. So much for waiting until tonight."

"Waiting," Sherlock scoffed, "Overrated."

John closed his eyes, "Apparently."

"And we defiled Mycrofts house." Sherlock grinned at that.

John snorted, "That would be what you are most pleased about."

Sherlock turned and looked at him, "Was it okay?"

"The sex?"

"Sex with me."

John narrowed his eyes at him. He looked really worried.

"It wasn't okay. It was more than okay. It was amazing." He took his hand.

Sherlock smiled, "Want to go again?"

"Oh god yes."

The next and last day in the house was hectic. Everyone was getting packed and arranging the plans for arriving back into London. Everyone was so busy they didn't even notice that Sherlock refused to sit down. John smirked every time he saw it.

When the bags were all packed, and Mycroft had made a big scene about the mess John made with the feathers, they all stood outside, knowing the next time they saw each other, everything might be different. Irene had disappeared in the night, gone now. John was grateful. He felt like she didn't belong here, in their family, and she should go. Now she was gone.

Lestrade and Molly nodded their goodbyes at them, not hiding their nerves. Lestrade shook Sherlocks hand and met his eyes.

"Tomorrow. We'll make this right, everything will be fine."

"I know it will," Sherlock raised a brow at him, "I'll see you then."

Lestrade turned and got in his car. Molly gave them all a big smile, "Goodbye guys. See you soon!"

They turned and drove away. John lifted the last suitcase into Mycrofts car while Sherlock opened the door for Mrs. Hudson. They all packed inside and Mycroft drove them down the street.

"So, what's the plan?" Mrs. Hudson patted senselessly at her skirt.

"We'll arrive, you'll all go back to your normal lives. I have a few trusted men who will make sure you all stay safe until tomorrow. Lestrade has planned a press conference that Sherlock will go to, alone, and answer questions. And he'll be alive." Mycroft said it easily, like it was something flawless.

"Okay," John nodded. He wanted to go to the conference with Sherlock, but he knew he couldn't hold his hand forever, even emotionally. This was something John understood Sherlock had to do himself.

The drive home seemed longer than when they had gone to the tiny house, mostly because John knew what would happen when they got there. They'd order in food, probably talk, finally sleep in their own bed. John felt a little knot of anticipation. Tonight would be the last night Sherlock was all his. After tomorrow, the whole world would know he was alive and want a piece of him. Jealousy rose in him at that. John would have to share his friend with the world, again. Friend? Flatmate? Boyfriend? Lover? This 'no-labels' thing really was different.

John must have looked as frustrated as he felt, because eventually Sherlock took his hand and held it. It was a tiny gesture, Sherlock looked away like he didn't seem to notice or care. Mrs. Hudson glanced at it and smiled.

They pulled out in front of the house, and no one was around besides the few people who lived near. John wondered if the stalkers had given up, and then he saw them; a small group of people up the street, watching the car tentatively.

"Sherlock, people are watching." John spoke. Sherlock just shrugged.

"I'll be alive tomorrow, may as well give them more to talk about," at that last word, he opened the door and stood out of the car. The people's eyes were wide, searching as if they didn't know if what they were seeing was real. Sherlock reached down and helped Mrs. Hudson out of the car, and then John. The three of them nodded small thanks to Mycroft before he vanished up the street, and then they entered through the familiar door.

Mrs. Hudson hugged Sherlock, a big tight hug. John noted that she had always been the one person Sherlock didn't hesitate to show physical intimacy towards. Afterwards, Mrs. Hudson hugged John, and planted a little soft kiss on his cheek. She nodded, sort of knowingly, at the both of them and vanished into her flat.

Sherlock didn't look at John, just bounded up the stairs. John scowled and followed closely at his heels. As soon as they entered the room, John barely had time to drop their bags before Sherlock turned on him, shut the door, and pinned him against it.

John was expecting a flurry of kisses, maybe the exploration of his body. Maybe he could spend the rest of the day making love to Sherlock and that would be okay. But Sherlock pressed their bodies together and didn't do anything, just looked at him. John's eyes were staring at the hollow of Sherlocks neck, which was bare. He considered kissing it. Finally, he tore his eyes away and met Sherlocks.

This was what Sherlock wanted to do right now. In the dim light of their flat, he wanted to memorize the exact colour of John's eyes. On some days, they leaned towards green quite a bit. But today they were astonishingly blue. It wasn't like his own eyes, Sherlock recognized, sometimes he hated his own eyes. They were blue but grey, like an empty salt-water lake. Empty.

Johns eyes were never empty.

John was the type of person who could keep a straight face in any situation, but when you looked into his eyes, all his emotions were laid out exactly in order of importance. Sherlock had gotten rather good at decoding him. The top-most layer was some obvious lust, which Sherlock had to bite back the urge to attack. He could pull John to their bed, swallow that pleasure whole. But instead he kept searching, memorizing. There was a little hint of fear underneath, like John needed some reassurance. Mostly, there was something that made Sherlocks heart start beating a little faster. Unrequited love.

Sherlock had never been looked at with love before. He was the messy result of a very distant mother, a dead father, and a brother who had always been better than him. His childhood was a fair amount of acting out of boredom and for attention. He didn't do well in school, teachers hated him. He was rude and saw through everyone; the other kids hated him even more. He had gained fair amounts of respect in his profession as an adult, and had gained some fascinating enemies. Some people had shown obvious attraction to him. Irene practically undressed him with his eyes, Molly had always fancied him. But nothing higher than a crush that could be ended with any one simple gesture, be-it sex or just being rude enough as to make them hate him.

Sherlock had given John everything he had. He had been rude, as inconsiderate as he could be. He had even given John his virginity. But John was still here, looking at him with that… look. Love was something Sherlock couldn't begin to understand logically. Up until now, he had assumed no one could ever love someone like him and he could never love any average and boring person.

But John was here, faced all the demons, to run back into the arms of the biggest demon of all. And Sherlock loved him back. The thought actually bubbled up a lot of fear inside of him, similar to the pangs of unbelievable fear and love that had caused him to cry in front of John days ago. This was improbable. John would surely want to leave soon.

Sherlocks face was reflecting so much pain. John was curious if he would cry again. He didn't want him to. So he leaned up and kissed him, hoping to help the situation. They kissed in silence at the door for a few minutes, while John traced his fingers under Sherlocks shirt and along his prominent hip bones.

Sherlock pulled back, but kept his eyes closed. He leaned his forearms against the door while John continued rubbing his hips. There was a long scar there, like Sherlock had been stabbed. John wanted to trace it with his tongue.

"Sherlock?" John rested his palms on his stomach, "Are you okay?"

"Say you won't ever change your mind," he whispered, warm and hot in Johns ear, "That you won't get bored of me or sick of me and leave."

John was sort of shocked. And then he smiled, "I could never."

"Promise?"

"I promise." John laughed.

Sherlock smiled and moved his hips forward, harder into John, who let out a little gasp. His eyes fluttered to that neck again, and this time he did lean forward, letting his tongue explore.

After a few minutes of heavy breathing, John pushed him back.

"Want to fuck until dinner?"

"I would love to."

A few hours later, they ordered Chinese and ate at the table, just kind of basking in the silence of a well spent couple of hours. Sherlock looked particularly pleased with his performance, and in fact, was eating without John having to remind him. But the odd feeling in Johns stomach had returned, forcing him to poke uselessly as his plate.

"Is something wrong?" Sherlock asked deeply.

John met his eyes, "Is everything going to be okay tomorrow?"

"God, you're not still worried about that are you?"

"Shut up, you seriously though I would leave you."

Sherlock considered this, "True. Tomorrow will be fine."

"I wish I could go with you."

"You should have asked. Of course you can."

"No," John shook his head, "You have to go. Yourself."

Sherlock watched him carefully, "You aren't going to be happy about it."

"Not at all."

Sherlock laughed and stood up, dropping his empty plate in the sink, and proceeded to sit back down, scooting closer to John.

"Eat," Sherlock nodded towards the plate.

"Not hungry," John pushed it away.

Sherlock caught his hand and squeezed it. John looked up at him, "Please."

"Fine."

Sherlock woke up the next day, and John was facing away from him. His chest was bare, and Sherlock traced patterns on his back. It was getting late, and his phone beeped. He stood up and went to it. It was from Lestrade.

One hour.

Sherlock got dressed silently, nothing special, just a suit. He stared at John, still sleeping, and considered waking him up. Something about it felt like a bad idea. He wasn't fond much of goodbyes, especially when John had been so weird about today. In the kitchen, Sherlock found a notepad and quickly wrote a note. He left it on the table and vanished through the front door.

When John woke up, the bed was cold. That was the first thing he noticed. He didn't have to do anything to know Sherlock was already gone for the day.

He checked the clock though. In a under five minutes, the conference would start and everyone would know. He immediately grabbed his phone and opened a new text message to Sherlock.

Right now, in this moment, you are mine and no one else can have you. Pretty soon, I'll have to share. It's sort of bitter sweet, isn't it?

He hit send and leaned back, just waiting. Within moments, though, his phone chimed.

I will always be yours, John. –SH

John smiled pointlessly and tossed his phone to the side, reaching for his laptop and opening it. He went to his blog and looked over it for a few moments. Comments were disabled, but the amount of views it had received was breathtaking. Perhaps they were there now, waiting for more news. He opened up a new post and began to write.

The Return
As I type this, there is a conference beginning at Scotland Yard. The rumors have long since circulated, and today they will be confirmed, but I feel it's only fair that I give my own confessional as to the recent happenings. It's the least I can do for those of you who never stopped believing in him, and for the close friends who have supported me in the hardest times.
Yes, it is true. Sherlock is alive.
This news may shock you. As you can imagine, there was no greater shock than the one this news brought to me. As a soldier and as a man, I have never cried so hard in my entire life. I was, and probably still am, trying to comprehend the fact this is real. I'm so relieved, so happy. In reality, I'm not sure why I didn't punch him in the face. I know pretended to be dead to protect me, but still. Maybe I can still punch him.
Needless to say, I can't really expose the details about how he faked his death; I'll leave that up to your imaginations or whether or not Sherlock wants to tell. I can, however, inform you that Sherlock was faced with a choice. His suicide or the thoughtless murders of all his friends. I have never met a man more noble as to kill himself for the lives of the people he loves. And I have never met a man more clever as to fool the world.
I know I never gave you all much of an explanation to the events of a year ago, so let me offer it to you now in hopes you'll believe me. You'll all hear a lot of words, people who say Sherlock Holmes is a liar, a fraud, and that Richard Brook is real. I'm asking, begging you, to toss these ideas aside. Sherlock is the best man I've ever met, my best friend. My bond with him is strong and I have seen all the human emotions in him people fail to see. I would trust him with my life, and I trust that his choices a year ago were for my own good. If you can't trust him, believe him, then I am begging you to trust me when I say he could never do the treacherous things he has been accused of.
I can't really tell you how things are destined to progress from here. We will continue to live in flat 221B, and we will continue to solve cases for the good of mankind. Maybe one day the entire world will view him as an innocent man. Until then, I hope you do.

The words seemed to flow, but John had to stop himself from telling the whole city of London and the internet world that he loved Sherlock and that's why they should trust him. He tried to view it logically, appealing to the hearts of the common man. When he had read over it three times and went to post it, twenty minutes had passed since the conference began. No doubt by now, Lestrade had finished explaining the situation and Sherlock was answering questions.

John wondered what to do. He could go back to sleep, but he had done an awful lot of sleeping lately. So he stood up and got dressed and headed to the kitchen to grab an apple before heading out. As he grabbed the now-soft fruit, he saw something on the table. Sherlock had apparently left a note.

Conference. Wanted to wake you up, but I'm not much good at emotional things. I'll see you tonight. I love you.

John smiled. Reading it was so different.

He half-jumped down the stairs and out the door into the firm summer air. He hailed a cab and clambered inside.

"Cemetery, please." The words just kind of came out before he really thought about them. Huh. He supposed it might be a good place to go. The cabbie nodded, and John ignored the look of recognition.

He wasn't sure why he went to Sherlocks grave. Sherlock wasn't down there, he didn't even know if anyone was. It was just a grave with a name that was fake.

In the past year he'd only been here five times. Right after Sherlock died, four months later, a few days before Christmas, their anniversary of meeting each other (January 29), and Valentine's day. He brought flowers the last two times, but they were gone now. Someone had been here recently, probably on the anniversary of his death, and left a teddy bear wearing a blue scarf. John snorted and approached it, picking it up. It sort of looked like Sherlock. Probably a joke from Lestrade or something.

He sat down and just looked at the stone and the bear and the closest dead flowers. He hadn't ever been able to come here without crying. A week ago, on the anniversary, he wasn't even planning to come. He'd wanted to forget, mostly. And now today, it was just a rock with a name on it. And Sherlock was alive and well.

John reached out and touched it, just rested his hand there, and smiled despite himself.

He had a second chance now. Not a day was going to pass without him kissing Sherlock, he would make sure of that. And he'd help him, no matter what.

John sat there for about an hour. Something in his head was telling him to go home, call his therapist and tell her he won't be requiring her services anymore, or call Harry and tell her what was going on. But he couldn't. So he just sat there.

Eventually he was startled by footsteps behind him. He turned to find Sherlock looming over him, glancing at the grave. John stood up and brushed himself off.

"How'd you know I'd be here?"

"You weren't home, wasn't a difficult leap," Sherlock kept his eyes on the headstone. John stood next to him and they looked at it together.

"It's rather sad, isn't it?" John frowned, nudging the taller man.

"Mmm," Sherlock turned, "I've seen it before."

"You have?"

"Yes," Sherlock took Johns hand, "I picked it out. It was a completely silly and rather depressing request from Mycroft."

"Oh," was all John could muster as they began to walk, hand in hand. Suddenly he came back to reality, "How'd the conference go?"

"It went well, actually. As planned, almost everyone was expecting my return anyway. There were a lot of questions as to 'how' and 'why' and between Lestrade and myself we managed to give an fine portrayal of the event."

"So, they asked a lot of questions? Any fun ones?" John smirked.

"As always."

"Like?"

"Like whether or not Mycroft had anything to do with it. Of course, he did, but I have to keep his nose clean."

"I'm sure he'll appreciate it." John noted.

"And," Sherlock stopped walking and turned to him, "They asked about you."

"Me?"

"Whether or not you knew anything. You didn't."

"Did they ask anything else?" John tried to communicate what he really wanted to know.

"They asked," Sherlock pulled John in close, "If we were romantically involved at any point last year."

"And you said no." John assumed, only slightly distracted by Sherlocks lips.

"Of course," Sherlock rested his hands on Johns hips, "And then they asked if we were romantically involved now."

"And you said…?"

"I said that's one word for it." Sherlock smiled.

"Idiot." John laughed, "You're asking for people to come after me."

"I think you can handle yourself, or I'll protect you," Sherlock basically purred, "And I want the world to know. Besides, living dangerously is kind of our thing, isn't it?"

John leaned forward to kiss him, but Sherlock pulled away teasingly.

"In other news, I got us a case. My first one back," He took Johns hand and pulled him along, "You may not sleep tonight. I've got to move my things in."

John rolled his eyes, but smiled. This was them now. Experiments and cases, kissing and yelling. Them for the rest of their natural lives, or at least until someone blew them up.

And John couldn't wait.