Today is John's and Mary's fictional anniversary, so I think it's a good day to post, finally, the last chapter. I apologise for the long delay, but 'Real Life' took its toll. After deleting and rewriting this chapter several times in the last few weeks I'm done and I hope you'll like a fluffy ending. Yeah, I know, deep down I'm a terrible romantic.

And again many thanks to the wonderful yalublyutebya .

Chapter 4

John frowned. He stood in the middle of the bedroom and turned in a slow circle, his gaze roaming around the room

No, nothing. Where was Sherlock's violin? Neither the music stand nor the violin had been in the living room. That in itself wasn't so unusual - although Sherlock preferred playing or composing in front of one of the windows, he occasionally took both with him to the bedroom. But they weren't here either!

John's gaze stopped at the dresser and glided thoughtfully over the closed drawers before he started to move. The papers on the dresser he'd seen last night hadn't been old files, he was sure about that. Besides, they'd all been much too neat - and there had been some keys next to the papers, one of which seemed to fit a deposit box or a bank vault.

The all-too-tidy flat, the missing violin, the papers on the drawer, not to mention the weapon - how did that all fit together? John's head slightly tilted to the left as he listened to the sound of running water; Sherlock was still in the shower. Without further hesitation he opened the top drawer.

Sherlock's beloved sock index was completely messed up, and when John picked up a pair of socks, he saw the corner of a sheet of paper peeking out. Carefully, as if defusing a bomb, he put Sherlock's socks on the dresser; below he discovered a mess of papers.

John took the note on top and read ' tie with Windsor-knot!'. The next piece was an insurance policy, then a statement from the bank with Sherlock's accounts, other insurance documents, contracts; he revealed an increasing number of documents, a bunch of keys with a small one John didn't recognise, some envelopes - and finally Sherlock's last will. John put everything on the dresser and looked at it with a confused glance.

He tried to take a closer look, to see the way Sherlock had taught him, to observe, but his brain refused to recognize the pattern. The envelopes attracted his attention and John took the little pile in his hand. He read the addressee on the front. 'Mummy' was on the first one, then 'Mrs. Hudson' and 'Mycroft'. Petrified John stared at the envelope addressed to Mycroft.

That was the moment the bathroom door opened and Sherlock came back, wearing his blue robe unbound over his pyjamas. He had taken his shower hastily; it was unbearable for him to be separated from John, even briefly. Although he knew that John was there, it was almost physically painful not to see him, so he rushed into the bedroom with a towel still wrapped around his damp hair. When he saw John with the letters in his hand in front of the open dresser, he froze, his face ashen.

Very slowly, John turned to Sherlock, who stood rooted to the spot in the middle of the room, his hair dishevelled, the wet towel hanging from his limp hand. Sherlock's face mirrored his thoughts, and for the first time John wished that he couldn't read him so well. Sherlock's eyes were glued to the envelope in John's hand, it was the one for Mycroft, and he looked ill. That was pretty much how John felt; all colour had drained from John's face when his brain had finally put together all the pieces of the puzzle.

"Wha - " John's voice broke and he had to clear his throat. "What is this, Sherlock?" Sherlock whimpered slightly. "It's nothing." He tried to sound confident, but his voice was desperate. "Please, John, it's nothing, really."

John shook his head slowly. Still holding the envelope in his hand, he walked over to Sherlock. "Sherlock, what is it?" he asked in a very quiet voice.

Sherlock drew the dressing gown tighter around him and dropped onto the edge of the bed. He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, his gaze fixed on the floor. Only with great effort John managed to move again, but eventually he sat down next to Sherlock and waited.

After what felt like an eternity, a shudder ran through Sherlock's body and his head dropped to his chest. John's right hand found its way on its own accord and stroked Sherlock's back soothingly. Sherlock closed his eyes and took a few shaky breaths before he finally answered quietly.

"I tried, I really did. But eight months, John. Eight months with nothing more than nightmares and pain, despair ... and no future ... I couldn't go on like this, so I wanted to change it."

There was a long pause in which none of them said anything. When John's hand disappeared from his back, Sherlock gritted his teeth so hard that it hurt, as he suppressed a loud groan. He wondered if he had finally lost John, lost him for the second time now. He couldn't bear that, definitely not.

A loud thump startled him and he opened his eyes and raised his head. John had slipped down from the bed. He sat on the floor, his eyes wide open; the sheer horror was written all over his face. One of John's hands covered his mouth to bury a scream in his throat; the other one was still clutching the envelope with Mycroft's name on it.

Dismay and shock swept through John's stomach as he realised what Sherlock was trying to say. The thought of Sherlock desperate enough to give up was bad enough, but the idea that John himself was the cause was sickening. The realisation of the truth had hit him like a blow. It was his fault, his entire fault! He had almost killed Sherlock!

It took him a while till he noticed that the loud whimper that he heard was his own, but he wasn't able to stop himself. Sherlock was now by his side and took the letter from his hand. John closed his eyes, he couldn't look at him. It was all his fault! Oh God, Sherlock had to hate him for this.

Then he felt a tentative hand on his hair and on his cheek. It took him a while before Sherlock's voice reached him, until he understood what Sherlock was saying. But that could not be, that was - wrong. Why should Sherlock apologize to him? What for? Also, Sherlock never ever apologised, never!

After taking the letter gently from John's hand and tossing it aside carelessly, Sherlock glanced around helplessly. He had never seen John like this, not in all the years they had known each other. Eventually, he lifted a hand very slowly, and he brushed the fringe back from John's brow with cautious fingertips, then he delicately caressed John's cheek. "I'm sorry John, really, I didn't know ... I thought you were ... I ... without you I just couldn't ... it hurt so much ..."

"Oh my God, Sherlock, stop apologizing!"

Sherlock froze, but before he could move his hand away, John grabbed his wrist and held him, his eyes still squeezed shut. Finally he raised his head and looked into Sherlock's eyes. "I have to apologize. I am sorry that you had to suffer like that. I am sorry that I haven't done anything. I'm so sorry ... for everything ... it's my entire fault." John looked appalled, but he needed to tell him; even if it would drive Sherlock away, he had to tell him. "I almost killed you, I don't know what I ..." His voice broke, he couldn't go on. Again a tremor ran through his body.

When Sherlock removed his hand from John's grip, John felt as if someone had pulled the rug from under his feet. He tucked his knees into his chest, his arms embracing them. Squeezing his eyes shut he made himself as small as possible. His whole focus was on his breathing, while he was trying to suppress the rising nausea. He'd ruined it, it was over, and finally he'd fucked it up. An uncontrolled trembling hit him.

Sherlock gave the huddled figure beside him a wary and uncertain glance. This ebb and flow of feelings was going to drive him insane. Obviously, he hadn't learned anything in all that years. Angry and frustrated about his own insufficiency, he stood up. Think, Sherlock! What would John do? Finally, he put away the tray and pulled the blanket off the bed, then he knelt in front of John and wrapped them both up warmly. Beneath his hands, Sherlock could feel John shaking, a fine vibration that Sherlock struggled to understand. He loosened John's clenched fingers cautiously and caressed his hands reassuringly. His fingers grazed up John's arms to his shoulders, circling there gently until Sherlock felt the tension and trembling beneath his fingers subsiding slowly. "Shhh, John. It's all right, I'm here."

"No," John replied his voice faint and tired. "No, it's not. It's not okay." He raised his head to look at Sherlock. "How can you say that it's all right? I almost killed you. Just one day later and - " John stopped talking, he gagged and covered his mouth with one hand. Abruptly he jumped up and ran to the bathroom; he reached the toilet just in time before he vomited.

Sherlock had followed him and handed him a damp towel to wipe off his face. Exhausted, John fell backwards and collapsed on the cold tiles.

"Come on, get up." Sherlock stood in front of him and reached out with both hands in John's direction. "It's too cold John, come on." But John didn't even bother to look up; he was still completely caught in his own thoughts, staring blankly into the void.

Eventually Sherlock just pulled him up, shoved him into the bedroom and led him to the bed without much of a fight. John curled up into a tight ball, trying to make himself invisible. Sherlock sighed and lay down beside him. He wasn't sure if he could understand John's feelings of guilt. After all, John hadn't left him intentionally or hurt him deliberately, but he also knew that that made no difference to John, so how could he help him?

Before, when John had had nightmares from his deployment in Afghanistan, Sherlock had always taken him in his arm and held him tightly. Usually John had calmed down quickly. Sometimes he'd even fallen asleep again in Sherlock's arms, always with the assurance that he was not alone, that Sherlock was there, watching over him. Eventually, the dreams were all gone. So Sherlock decided to try it. Slowly and carefully, he wrapped himself around John, so that he could hold and caress him from behind. This was an unfamiliar role reversal, because except for the nightmares at the start, John had always been the strong, confident part in their relationship.

Chest to back they lay there, snuggled up close together. Sherlock slid his left arm under John's neck and bent his elbow so that his hand could rest on John's chest right over his heart. His right arm caressed whatever he could reach while he buried his face in John's neck and breathed slowly. He had no idea how much time had passed by, but eventually he could feel John relaxing in his arms.

After they had come to rest, they lay in silence together for a while. Sherlock began at some point to speak quietly. It simply happened, almost involuntarily, and surely without him thinking about it. "I'm not even sure if I would've managed it." His voice was just a soft whisper. "You can't imagine how clumsy I was," he mumbled into John's hair and gave him a light kiss on his temple. "I didn't want to make such a mess; Mrs. Hudson still would have needed the flat afterwards, so I thought I should do it in the shower. But I slipped and almost fell. Can you imagine Mycroft's face when he'd have found me with a broken ankle? Horrible!" Sherlock's face twisted in disgust before he continued. "Besides, Lestrade had invited himself round; he was determined to come over for a drink." A slight snort proved Sherlock that John was actually listening to him. That was good, very good indeed. "So you see that your guilty feelings are completely exaggerated."

Timidly, Sherlock shifted to look at John, his arms tightening hesitantly around him. "Yes, I was desperate. I've hated going to sleep, because of the nightmares. And I've hated waking up, because of the loneliness which came back in the morning. However, I was so - clumsy - I don't think I really would've managed it." He looked at John earnestly. "And do you know why? Because I never gave up hope completely." Sherlock squirmed uncomfortably; his eyes flickered restlessly over John's face as he searched for the right words. "I'm not very good at these things, you know. But we have this connection, we always had, from the first day we met; it's like an invisible chain. I would have known if it had been torn down."

John gave Sherlock a long and thoughtful gaze, and then he nodded slowly and cuddled up in Sherlock's arms. Sherlock held him in a tight embrace and refused to let him go.

Epilogue

Mycroft had listened silently to John's report a few days later and then he had insisted that John made an appointment with a therapist. John thought it was astonishing that he got off scot-free, but probably Mycroft or one of his minions had already checked his story and so he already knew every detail anyway. His examinations in the hospital remained without result as John had expected.

John was okay with therapy, he actually liked the therapist and she managed to help him not only with his guilt issues but also with Sherlock's whims and how to deal with. And since Mycroft was paying for it, John didn't mind taking advantage.

Sherlock's nightmares disappeared quite rapidly; he had never been the one to have afterthoughts when a case was closed, and this case was closed. John was back, and that was the only thing that mattered to him.

Sherlock hardly left John alone in the beginning, but life slowly returned to normal after a few weeks. However, Sherlock needed the constant reassurance of John's presence, whether through a searching glance or a text message if they were separately on the go.

What irritated John initially, in addition to the obsessive clinginess that sometimes put his patience to a severe test, were the small and unfamiliar gestures. Sherlock had begun to show his affection in a way he'd never done before. From making tea for John up to small caresses; a goodbye kiss when John left for work, a touch at his shoulder or a kiss on his head when John was sitting in his chair reading the papers.

Also their sex life had changed. Sherlock had never made a secret of the fact that for him sex was not as important as for John, and after ten years of relationship things were getting a little dull, but that was normal. But since John was back, apparently Sherlock couldn't get enough. Not that John would have complained, but he was curious.

"Sherlock," he began carefully when they were exhausted and satisfied, cuddling in bed one night, "Can I ask you something?" Sherlock stroked John's hair. "You wonder why I always want to sleep with you." It was not a question but a statement. Sherlock had already been waiting for John to point it out.

"It's hard to explain, it's just that I've realized how limited our time together probably is. They always say you don't appreciate something until you lose it. They're right." He hugged John tighter. "But I did get a second chance, a second chance with you. When we have sex it feels like - we become one, we merge, become inseparable. I want this as often as possible, I need to feel you, around me, in me, be one with you."

John held Sherlock even a little tighter and kissed him gently. Yes, it probably was a second chance, he thought. And he was determined to make full use of it.

A few times in his life Sherlock had had moments of absolute clarity, when for a few brief seconds the silence drowned out the noise and he could feel rather than think and things seemed so sharp. And the world seemed so fresh as though it had all just come into existence. He could never make these moments last. He clung to them, but like everything else, they faded. He had lived his life on these moments, they pulled him back to the present, and he realised that everything was exactly the way it was meant to be.

The end