I looked around. Blimey it'd been a while. 221B. Home. Well, at least it used to be. It just didn't seem quite like home without Sherlock. I snapped my head around and slowly reached for my Browning where it was tucked into my jeans. There was a creaking on the steps up to the flat. I only relaxed a few minutes later when Mrs. Hudson came into view, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. I tugged my shirt back into place, concealing the gun, and smiled. Some things just seemed to stay the same, and I was glad of it.

"I'm so glad you're back John, it's been so long. I know you most likely don't want to talk about the traveling and the jobs you've been doing for Sherlock, but I'm so glad you're home safe. I've always hated traveling to be honest, what with my hip and all. But shame on you young man! Couldn't think to stay in contact while away? I've been worried sick!" She huffed, glaring at me for a moment before softening at my awkward mumbled apologies, "Anyway, I've made you tea, just the way you like it. And those biscuits from the store you fancy. Now, I'm just doing this as a welcome home, I'm not your housekeeper. Oh, Mrs. Turner had her niece over the other day, wouldn't stop nattering on about her, personally I was more interested..." Chattering away, she moved through the flat to place the tray on the small table next to my chair. I followed her, and when she straightened, I leaned down to kiss her on the forehead.

"Thanks so much Mrs. Hudson. It's good to be here." She beamed up at me before moving away, saying softly,"It's good that you're here." She smiled, and then fidgeted a tad bit before continuing chattering.

"I didn't touch anything, so it's the same as you left it. I recon you might want to take down the wall though." The wall to which she referred was my web tacked above the mantle. Sherlock made his, I made mine. They were downright useful, plus since mine was more organised it was also rather easy to follow. Mine was of the spider's web constructed by Moriarty. A mass of black, red and grey strings. Black for the finished targets which at this point was all of them, with corresponding grey for the Ally, red for me. There was no more blue string. Blue for the targets still out there. All gone. It was all done. I breathed a sigh of relief. It'd taken too damn long, and I was so fucking tired.

Noting my lack of attentiveness, Mrs. Hudson smiled to herself and retreated down the stairs to read in her own flat. I noticed, and breathed a sigh of relief, sagging. I ran a hand through my hair and moved towards the web. I started dismantling it into the file boxes next to the fireplace with my hands on autopilot, leaving me free to think. I didn't know what I was going to do next. My quest for revenge and justice was done. Nothing more to be done in that respect. I suppose I could go back to Mycroft for work, but after what he did to aid Moriarty in Sherlock's death, I didn't want anything else to do with the bastard. Perhaps I should hunt down the Ally. Thank him for his aid in taking down the web, and maybe punch him for letting Sebastian Moran through his bloody fingers. Though according to Mycroft, he'd had ample motivation to led his aid, even on his own.

After the web was gone, I retired to my old chair, sinking down in relief. Breathing in the comforting smell of dust and gunpowder that always filled the flat. I strained, seeking out a particular scent, only to stop abruptly when realising that the smell of chemicals and experiments was long gone. The last bit of combustion had faded from the air.

He'd been my purpose to life, the only thing I knew to do when he left was to hunt down the cretins responsible for his departure and to cut them down. That done, I had nothing left to do. I could go back to doing GP work at the surgery... I grimaced at the thought of going back to that grim place and working full time with nothing to distract myself. Or perhaps I could go back to the army. I was discharged due to my shoulder, they thought it would interfere with my shooting. Well, as the last near two years had proved, that was no longer a concern. I could go for an evaluation, then go back to training camp before shipping out to wherever I was needed. A highly accurate shot with a lot of emergency medicine training, how could they say no?

I sighed. I loved the army, I really did. But I didn't know if I could go back to that hell, or any other made by man and his wars. Special Forces was right out, no more covert ops for me, thank you very much, M15 or M16 can go hang for all I care. Maybe the police? I snorted, yeah, right, join the one thing that'll remind you of the bloody bastard every second of every day.

Sighing again, I finished the last gulp of my tea and moved to get ready for bed. Moving towards the stairs to my bedroom, I paused outside Sherlock's old room. I pushed open the door, nothing had changed. God I'd forgotten about his mess. I'd cleared up everything into neat piles and stacks in the main areas and my room, so the disaster zone of his room was a shock to me. It still smelled like him a bit. Two years, and his room still smelled like him because of the mess. I smirked. He'd be proud, then want to replicate the faded scent and study the reasons as to why it'd remained. I'd get so mad at him... Moving between the books, clothing, weapons, and what appeared to be a small potted tree, I stood by his bed. I looked at the things on his night-table. Books, papers covered in his distinctive scrawl, and a picture. That was odd, ever since that whole deerstalker thing he'd been put off pictures, and I'd never seen it before. So I stooped and picked it up to get a closer look. It was of the two of us. Sitting in our chairs, the fireplace going and content smiles on our faces. It looked like it'd been taken from one of the security cameras that Sherlock kept about the flat. He was actually smiling, and considering I was too he must have been on good behaviour when this was taken. God I missed his smile. He never smiled that way for anyone else, just for me. My very own Consulting Detective. I crawled onto his bed, still fully clothed, feeling alone and vulnerable. I curled up in the center of the bed, hugging his pillow that was rarely used to my chest.

"Goodnight Sherlock you twit. I love you." I whispered under my breathe to a dead man who couldn't hear me. I dropped off soon after from pure exhaustion.


The fire-escape squeaked under my feet. Damn inferior structure. I cursed under my breath as I moved towards my bedroom window. Mycroft, the bastard, had told me that John was in tonight for the first time in weeks, and I wasn't about to stay away, not when I was so close. JohnJohnHomeLoveJohnSafeHome. Oh for God's sake. I thought I'd squashed that for once and for all! In any case, I was at the window. Not locked? My dear John, I'd've thought you'd be better at locking down your home than this. After all, anyone could take advantage of an unlocked window to sneak in.

I eased the window up as silently as possible, but not being utterly meticulous. John had never heard the noises of the window opening and closing from his room upstairs before, I didn't see why this would be any different. Also, I'd conducted an experiment that concluded that 40 decibels had to travel up to his room to wake him.

This is why I was understandably surprised that after sliding gracefully into my room, I was met with a light and a gun pointed unwaveringly at my head.

"Who the fuck are you, and what the bloody hell do you want?" Johns quiet growl seemed to resonate in my bones. I slowly raised my hands above my head, cautious not to startle him into shooting. I stared at him. His eyes were so cold and angry. I never thought... I never expected it to be like this. I expected some damage from the killing, not the appearance of a cool and collected cold individual who looked like he murdered daily.

I quickly ran through all that I knew of him. I missed something. In his past, in the army, he was shot. Army medics don't go to the front lines, how could he have gotten shot. I'd seen his file, but now I'd suspected that Mycroft had rather censored the version he gave to me. I'd always assumed it unimportant, but now I wondered.

"John." I spoke low, bowing my head so he wouldn't see the fear in my eyes. All I had wanted, all I had wanted for the last fucking two years, was to come home. And now that I had, this is what I see. A gun pointed at my head. How ironic. To survive Moriarty, his damn web, and everything, only to be killed by the man I loved on my return home. Mycroft might laugh. Moriarty would if he could, the twat.

"No, I don't know who the fuck you are, or how you know my name, but you are not him. I don't care how similar your voices sound. You are not him."

Looking up I saw John's face falter. I breathed out slowly and nearly sighed from relief. It was a mask. A damnably good one, far better than any I'd constructed, but a mask nonetheless. But behind it. So much pain. So much anger. As I looked up I allowed the light to fall on my face. He shattered. His entire face fell with horror and anger. The pain filling his eyes felt like daggers, straight to my gut, worse than any of the tortures of the past years.

"John. Please. John. I'm home. Please, I'm home. Please." Speaking slowly and quietly, cautious and looking for his reaction. I begged him. I actually begged. Sherlock fucking Holmes, and I was begging. I just needed him to see me. Needed him to see that I was home, that I came back for him and that I'd never wanted to leave in the first place. He had to see me, please, for Gods sake, he had to see me.

"No. Please God no. You can't be him." He crumpled. That's the only adequate word for it. He held the gun limply in his hand, his shoulders sagged, his face haunted and his voice cracking and full of agony.

"John, please, please it's me. I came home. I came home for you, please. Please John." My posture full of pain, my voice begging, I stepped cautiously towards him, hands held away from me. John come on, you cannot be broken, you are far too strong for that. Please...

He snarled, suddenly full of rage, and hurled himself towards me, dropping the gun. We landed painfully amongst the mess that was my floor. Pinning me to the ground, he snarled in my ear, "You cannot be him. He died. He left me. He fucking smashed his head open on the pavement after jumping off of a fucking roof. Sherlock Holmes is dead!" He roared the last sentence as he grappled with me on the floor. Abruptly I stopped struggling and lay still. We both panted as we lay there, he was still pinning me face down on the floor.

"John, it's me. Please, John. My John. I'm so sorry. Oh John, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. My John, oh god what have I done." The words stream out of my mouth as I lay on my chest on the ground, John sitting above me twisting my arm behind my back, I ignore the pain.

A quiet sound is the only answer to my words. With a shock, I realised that my soldier, my John, was weeping. Quietly and profusely. His grip slackens and I get up to sit up beside him slowly. His eyes streaming and his shoulders heaving, my John wouldn't even look at me. I reach for him, as he kneels amongst the objects and papers littering the floor. He looks at me. Finally. I can feel relief course through my veins. Finally he sees me. Oh my John, JohnSorryLoveYouSorrySoSoSorry.

"Sherlock?" And at that, I break. Tears stream down my cheek, mixing with blood from scrapes old and new, the salt stinging the wounds, minor though they are.

"I came home, John. I-" I choke out, suddenly cut off by John's arms coming around me. Oh that's... actually rather nice... I hold him just as tight as we both sit there on the ground, covered in dust and dirt from my floor, with scrapes and bruises from the fight, tears streaming down our cheeks as we just acknowledge, we're home. At long fucking last. Through fire and blood, all too literally, we're home. I sigh and hold John tighter, at some point we'll talk. He's still angered beyond all belief, I can feel it, and he deserves to know. He'll want to know. I'll have to tell him. All the absolute shit that I've done. The pain and the horror. But not now, not tonight. For tonight, we just hold each other in silence. Breathe each other in. Gunpowder, tea and wool. He still smells the same. I'd tried to replicate the scent a few times over the years but... I never could perfect it. Always missing something... I burry my face into his neck, as he does the same to me. Safe. At long last. We're both safe. We're home.

AND WE'RE DOOOOONE! I think that might be it for this storyline, I might write some other stuff eventually, but for now, I'm good. Hope you guys enjoyed, tell me if there's anything else you want me to fix or as such. Review and favourite if this is indeed something you liked. I'll see you all later. Thank you, once again, to all of those who either came before or after the editing, and to all who read till here, thank you so much. Seriously, I never thought people'd like my writing, so... thanks.