AN: My absolute profuse apologies for taking so long to update! I guess I became a lazy sod during the week. After writing the whole thing, I realized it was rather bad and heavily edited it today. I'm still not too fond of it and it's rather long again, but at this stage I just need to finish and maybe re-do it in ten years time... Congratulations to those who won the ten points on offer, story 4 was indeed based on 'The Dying Detective'. Please read it if you haven't already done so, and reread it if you have! Spread the Sherlock love around.

One is Vexed- Ten points ahoy! I never saw the Jeremy Brett version of this; I must look through my box set again! But what a man eh? He certainly gives Benedict a run for his money.

SBMShaneomaniac – thank you for breaking your trend to review me so! I hadn't thought of steam and wall punching, but now that you've said it, I can't help wondering why I didn't think of it before! I'll keep that in mind when I'm writing next :P

Mina Shelley – well thank you! I had thought of keeping the name Culverton, but as I updated the story, I thought maybe the name should change too, as I've never seen it outside of the story...

Thank you to all my other wonderful reviewers, you guys make my day! Enjoy and please drop a review. I'd love to make it to double digits ;)

5

Life resumed at a fast pace for the occupants of 221B Baker Street, although a subtle change settled over a certain doctor who had his residence there. Despite the continual threat presented to them by Moriarty, the oblivious dark cloud in John's mind began to disperse. No longer could he deny or ignore inconvenient feelings. Eventually he crumbled and decided to analyze them in the manner in which Sherlock would do so. What was he feeling? And what were the implications?

Whenever he saw the initials SH at the end of a text, when he saw the detective smile at him or when he praised his efforts at a crime scene, he felt happiness flood his being. It was an entirely new sensation to the doctor, and one he was not adverse to. He savoured it.

When someone like Sally or Anderson insulted Sherlock, his pulse elevated and he had to prevent himself from giving them a harsher retort (usually involving fists) than they perhaps deserved. When Sherlock wasn't there his heart felt heavy, like it was trying to find a reason to keep beating. And when his heart plummeted every Sherlock was in trouble, the evidence really became indisputable.

John finally admitted to the implications of these symptoms, but shock wasn't the first thing that he registered. No, his first thought was to figure out how to prevent Sherlock from ever finding out. John didn't know how he would react to discovering that his flat-mate was utterly in love with him. His second thought was to curse himself, wondering how he had been stupid enough to let this happen. Not only was Sherlock a self-proclaimed sociopath, he was also devastatingly attractive, arrogant, and a completely wonderful genius. In short, everything that John was not. 'Love really had a cruel sense of humour doesn't it,' John would bitterly think after reflecting thus.

While it pained John to admit that he didn't have a chance, he comforted himself by saying that no one else really did either. He could live with being Sherlock's friend and companion. Probably. As long as no one else came in and took his place. Maybe Sherlock would work out how he felt eventually but until then, John was determined to continue on as before. Besides, now was most definitely not the time to be distracting Sherlock with romantic intentions and attachments.

Moriarty had begun to up the ante, permanently playing games with the consulting detective. John kept a close watch on his friend, trying to monitor his every movement in case he, once again, did something reckless or stupid. He worried about the impact it would have on Sherlock's mind as well as his physical wellbeing. What if Moriarty got to him? What if he messed with his brilliant mind and destroyed him? John knew it was his duty to protect Sherlock with all his might, no matter what the cost to himself. Sherlock was too great for the world to lose.

So when Sherlock left the flat one evening with a mumbled explanation of where he was going, John sensed trouble and reacted quicker than Sherlock had anticipated. He called Mycroft and Lestrade immediately, having long since acquired their numbers in case of emergencies. And it appeared that Mycroft's concern for his brother was invaluable in this case. Certain precautions of his (such as discreet tracking devices) enabled them to find out Sherlock's whereabouts almost instantaneously.

John ran from the apartment and into a cab as soon as he heard the address. He knew that there was no time to spare, though he regretted not having the foresight to bring his gun. Who knew what Moriarty would do to Sherlock? John visibly shuddered and pushed the thought from his mind.

He soon arrived and thrust money at the cabbie. Despite how much he hated Sherlock's recklessness, he realized that it must have rubbed off on him. Here he was, running into certain danger unarmed without a thought for prudence. 'Hang prudence!' thought John. 'It's no good when Sherlock's in danger.'

John saw that he was back in the language building where he had shot the cab driver in 'A Study in Pink'. So Moriarty wanted to finish things where they started. John thought desperately. Where had Sherlock talked to the serial killer? Think! He had gotten it wrong the first time around. He couldn't afford to do so again.

His memory was coming back to him, and he swiftly ran through the seeming maze of corridors. It was bigger than he remembered. He soon found the room and slowed his approach when he heard voices inside. Looking through the glass of the door, he could see that Sherlock's back was to him and he was in the middle of the room. It was dark, but he could make out Moriarty's livid features. He looked deranged almost. John slowly eased the door open, praying that the shadows would keep him hidden while he thought up a plan. Before anything came to mind, he saw Moriarty cock the gun at Sherlock. John saw the lack of hesitation in the man's cold malicious eyes. John was already running towards Sherlock before Moriarty squeezed the trigger.

The shot rang out just as John knocked into Sherlock. They tumbled to the floor in a tangled heap, with John somehow ending up underneath. Another shot sounded and there was the sound of a gun dropping and Moriarty's howl of pain. Before John could really register the closeness of their bodies, Sherlock asked if he was alright and then smiled his thanks to John, before jumping back onto his feet. Lestrade and back-up officers had entered, Sherlock shouting commands to them. John could hear Sherlock calling to him as well, but for some reason he couldn't make out the words.

John breathed deeply, willing his lungs to calm down before he got up. Instead, it caused him to feel a sharp, agonizing pain in his side and he gasped audibly. He looked around for Sherlock, who had moved to the other side of the room, too caught up in arresting Moriarty to notice that John was still on the floor. In fact, no one seemed to notice John.

He felt panic begin to set in. He tried to slow his breathing, willing himself to stay calm. He moved his shaking hands down to where he felt the pain, which was rapidly intensifying. He could feel something moist through his jumper. He tried to move his head to take a look but found that he couldn't without feeling dizzy. He slowly raised his hands, and noticed that his vision had become hazy from the effort. But through the haze, he could still see the crimson liquid coating his hands...

He couldn't help letting out a muffled cry, and cursed himself for being weak. But someone evidently heard his outburst and crouched beside him with concern filled eyes.

'Sherlock,' he wheezed out. He thought he could make out Moriarty's voice somewhere. But John didn't think about that when he felt strong arms engulf him, and a soft voice whispered his name.

He tried to search for those familiar blue eyes, that familiar beautiful face. He heard his name again and felt the arms tighten around him. He looked into the eyes of the man he loved for possibly the last time, and smiled.

'It was worth many wounds to know the depth of loyalty and love that lay behind that cold mask... I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain.' - ACD

+1

Sherlock had stared steadily down the barrel of Moriarty's gun. The criminal who was used to having others do his dirty work had decided to bring Sherlock down himself. A year ago, Sherlock would have felt angry that he was in this position. He had so many years ahead of him, work and research that would never be accomplished. And now? He was disappointed. Disappointed that it would end like this, knowing that he wouldn't say goodbye to John. That there was so much ground between them that hadn't been explored. He would always regret that.

Then suddenly he was being thrust to the floor as the gun was fired. Underneath him was John's familiar face, who was looking up at Sherlock with concern, silently asking him if he was hurt. Sherlock grinned slightly as he heard Lestrade and the other officers disarm Moriarty as he cried in frustration. 'Are you alright?' he asked softly. He could feel John's breath tickling his cheek, and noted that it a very pleasant sensation indeed.

John nodded, and Sherlock lifted himself up from the floor, instantly going to confront Moriarty. He called over his shoulder for John to follow. It was not until approximately twenty seconds later that he realized that something was wrong. He heard a muffled cry of pain, and he spun on his heel, recognizing the voice instantly. John was still on the floor and an officer was crouched beside him, unaware of what was wrong. But Sherlock saw. His trained eyes saw everything, and his breath hitched violently.

He barked to Lestrade to call an ambulance, the DI turning to look at him in confusion. Sherlock ran to John, quickly taking him into his arms, so naturally that one would have thought that he had been doing it for years.

'John,' he said anxiously, fervently. John's warm brown eyes soon sought out his own. Sherlock felt his heart thumping against his chest as he saw John's deathly pale face, that his eyes weren't as bright as they usually were. Despite this, he could still see that John was trying to smile. 'Sh-Sher-lock'.

'Shh,' the detective said gently. 'Don't talk, just stay with me.' He put his hand to John's brow, frowning when he felt that it was cold and clammy. He tightened his hold on John, trying to convince himself that he was only doing so to pass on warmth to the ex-soldier.

He heard John sigh. 's'nice,' he murmured. But his breathing was becoming more laboured with each passing second. Sherlock looked down and saw the blood that was coating his friend's torso. He weakened his grip slightly while he took out the pocket knife from his coat. He quickly cut open his jumper, searching for the bullet wound.

'M-my j-jumper,' John said weakly.

'I'll buy you another one,' Sherlock replied shortly, too concerned with trying to stop John bleeding profusely from his wound.

The ugly wail of sirens greeted his ears and he breathed a sigh of relief. He was out of his depth. He pressed down harder on the wound, cursing as he heard John groan in pain.

'Stay awake John, please, I need you here.'

And then John took a turn for a worse, screaming out in pain, and Sherlock could only look at his friend in shock. John's blood coated his clothes and hands.

'Oh -god,' John choked out. 'Sh-Sherlock. N-not y-your fault. Okay?'

Sherlock shook his head vigorously, and placed a hand either side of John's face. 'Don't you dare, John Watson! Don't you dare say that to me! Now, come on! Don't give up!' John's eyes softened and he tried to say something more, but as he drew breath, his words were lost in a cough and blood. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, while Sherlock desperately clung to his body, shouting and pleading for him to come back to him.

Sherlock had not cried since childhood. Even then, it took exceptional circumstances for it to happen. He had never really considered that he would encounter them in his adult life.

He didn't cry in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, all the while holding John's hand after he had initially been resuscitated. He didn't cry when he spent four hours straight in the waiting room, hoping to hear news on John's surgery. He still didn't cry when the doctors told him that there had been complications and John may never wake up from his medically induced coma. Nor did it happen when he spent two solid weeks keeping vigil by John's bedside, only leaving to use the adjoining bathroom. (He never let go of his hand during this time.) He didn't cry when he spoke softly to John while he was unconscious, or when he saw the sympathetic looks from his brother and his landlady, who had already given up.

Sherlock didn't cry because it was his John that was in the hospital bed. And his John would never leave him like this, with all the unspoken things left between them. When he felt John's fingers stir beneath his in the middle of the third week, he wasn't surprised. And he still didn't cry when it took another week for John to open his eyes for a few brief seconds. Nor when the doctors said that John may suffer from amnesia or brain damage. They would just have to wait and see.

Three days later, John opened his eyes again and spoke for the first time. Sherlock looked at him intently, and John's eyes met his. 'Sherlock,' he said with a soft smile. And Sherlock beamed and gazed back at him with a tender expression. John squeezed his hand in response, and murmured. 'I knew you'd be here,' before falling asleep again.

Through his smile, Sherlock felt the tears finally slipping down his cheeks, because John had finally come back to him. Sherlock was a rational man and all the evidence had indicated that John wouldn't survive. But for the first time in his life, the consulting detective had abandoned the facts, and had adamantly insisted that John would live. He cried because he had been right, because his faith in John had been well placed. He cried because he should have been condemned to a life without John, to a life with only loneliness and emptiness. But John had come back to him. His John. 'I knew you wouldn't leave me,' Sherlock whispered, nestling his head on John's chest, finally succumbing to sleep.

After two weeks, John had insisted that he be allowed home. Sherlock had argued with him, unwilling to let John get hurt again. But John had merely glared at him, and insisted that he would recover quicker at home anyway. In the meantime, they had talked about Moriarty, but not about the incident itself. It wasn't until they settled back into Baker Street that Sherlock approached the topic, feeling trepidation and excitement all at once.

They were sitting in the living room in their usual chairs by the fireplace. John was reading, while Sherlock gazed at him unashamedly. John finally noticed and eyed Sherlock over the top of his book. 'Is there something you want?' he asked.

'When I confronted Moriarty, you saved my life.'

John flushed slightly and was unsure of how to reply. 'Yes?'

'Why did you do it? You took a bullet for me.'

John rolled his eyes in exasperation. 'I hardly got shot on purpose. I did it because I care about you and you were in danger. I reacted as I always do. And I would do it again right now if I had to.'

Sherlock frowned. 'You shouldn't have done it. I don't like you getting hurt John.'

John threw down his book with a muttered curse and stood. 'What?' Sherlock questioned.

'You could say thank you for once! God damn it, you just don't get it! You can sit there and tell me that you don't want me to get hurt, but then you pay no attention to yourself. Do you know how much I worry about you? I couldn't keep living if something happened to you Sherlock! And now you sit there and -' John struggled to find the words to express his frustration, pacing violently. Sherlock had felt his heart soar at these words. John felt the same way! He slowly got to his feet also, and walked closer to John, struggling to prevent himself from breaking out into a smile.

John turned to face him while he continued his rant. 'You always get yourself into trouble, and you don't even think about what it does to me. And then you tell me not to knock you out of a bullet's path? Well I'm sorry but that's just-'

Sherlock softly pressed his first two fingers against John's lips. That was enough to shock John into silence.

'Thank you,' he murmured in John's ear. Sherlock slowly removed his fingers and moved them to John's cheek. He closed the space between them and tentatively pressed their lips together. He allowed his long fingers to move and tangle themselves in his surprisingly soft hair.

At first John could hardly breathe let alone react, convinced that his mind was playing tricks on him. But then he could feel himself pulled flush up against Sherlock's chest, and as soft lips caressed his own, all he could think was, 'oh god yes'. He relaxed into the touch. Sherlock took this as a good sign, and quickly deepened kiss.

Just as his hands snaked their way around Sherlock's waist, Sherlock pulled back to gage his response.

John's eyes were still closed and he was breathing deeply. Sherlock frowned slightly and was about to speak when John beat him to it.

'That was... Amazing.'

'You think so?'

John opened his eyes and grinned up at him. 'Of course. Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.'

'That's not what people normally say.'

'And what do people normally say?'

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's frame, and pulled him even closer. His eyes were sparkling. 'Mind blowing was a phrase used once or twice.'

'Well good detective, why don't you run it by me again? See if you can change my mind?'

John's mischievous tone soon evaporated on hearing Sherlock's growled reply.

'I'll do a lot more than that, John Watson.'

And he did. For many years to come.