[Author's Note: Okay, I lied. This is not the last chapter after all. It started getting really long, so I decided to break it up. I didn't think anyone would begrudge a super-quick update, with half your happy ending now and the other half later. Plus, more room for smut in the second part! Anyway, enjoy. :-)]
"...you sodding bastards think that the rules don't apply to you..."
John and Sherlock sat side by side on the back gate of the ambulance, watching Greg rant. John, having refused a trip to the hospital, was stoically letting a paramedic stitch and plaster him up at least. Sherlock seemed content to just sit and watch over him, fending off the occasional offer of a shock blanket.
"...falling concrete my arse. We all know that Anthea woman, or whoever she is, conked me a good one. For fuck's sake, my ex-wife didn't give me half as much heartache as you lot, and I bloody divorced her..."
"To be accurate..." Sherlock began.
John stamped down hard on Sherlock's foot before he could point out that Lestrade's wife had actually divorced him rather than the other way around. Greg didn't even seem to notice, the tirade continuing without a breath.
"...not once did you even stop to think that it would be my arse on the line..."
Neither of them were paying much attention to Greg's words anymore, but John was keeping a careful eye on his somewhat wobbling stance. The paramedic finished up putting a dressing over the stitches, and John gave her a nod of thanks before she escaped into the depths of the vehicle.
"...for Christ's sake I should have known the day I met you that you'd be more trouble than a fucking bagful of drunken monkeys..."
Sherlock, seemingly struck by the colorful turn of phrase, raised an eyebrow at John. John's mouth twitched, and he bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a giggle. The combination of relief and painkillers was making him remarkably giddy. Finally Greg seemed to wind down, huffing in irritation.
"Absolutely, Greg," John said soothingly. "Couldn't agree more. Now why don't you just sit down here with us for a moment. Plenty of room..." He had to elbow Sherlock quite sternly but eventually he got the hint and scooted over, John sliding in next to him to make room for Greg.
Greg narrowed his eyes at John for a moment before his whole body seemed to slump. "Christ, I'm knackered," he admitted, lowering himself weakly to the offered seat.
"That'll be the concussion. You should make sure you stay awake for a few hours yet. Maybe sleep on a couch at the Yard and have someone on the night shift wake you every so often..."
As if summoned, a long sleek black sedan pulled up next to the ambulance.
The door smoothly opened, revealing Anthea, looking pressed and prim, tapping away on her mobile. She glanced up for just a moment. "Get in the car, Lestrade," she said calmly, and then returned to her rapid tapping.
"You!" Lestrade's face was a picture, torn between looking outraged and gobsmacked. "I'm not going anywhere with you. You knocked me a good one on the head!"
Anthea paused in her tapping for another moment. She favored Lestrade with a long, speculative look from head to toe before her mouth tilted in a sly smile. "Kiss it and make it better?" she suggested, and then returned to her phone.
"Crikey!" Now Lestrade just looked stunned.
John snickered. "You're in there, mate."
Greg was still staring at the open car door, shaking his head slowly. "I don't know if I should be chuffed or terrified."
John pretended to consider the question seriously. "A little of both, I should think," he finally concluded.
Greg ran a hand through his silver hair. "I'll never be able to turn my back on her," he muttered.
Sherlock leaned around John, peering at Greg. "A multitude of sexual positions would still be feasible under those constraints," he supplied helpfully.
Greg's jaw dropped again. He looked at Sherlock as if he had sprouted horns, opening and closing his mouth a few times before he managed to summon words. "Sex advice from Sherlock bloody Holmes," he finally said in stunned amazement. "God help us all."
John felt Sherlock bristle next to him, and sighed in resignation. "As John can attest..." Sherlock began indignantly, and John was already snickering again as Greg's eyes widened even further. "...I am quite proficient in the logistics of sexual intercourse," Sherlock finished haughtily.
Greg looked from one of them to the other in silence for a long moment. John gave him the best shrug he could manage with only one working shoulder before resting his head against Sherlock with a weary smile.
"Bloody hell," Greg finally said despairingly, putting his face in his hands and scrubbing as if to remove the mental image. "I thought you two were trouble before, god only knows what kind of disasters you'll cause now that you're shagging."
It was too much. John and Sherlock both dissolved into giggles, ignoring the shove of irritation Greg gave John, pushing him into Sherlock like a domino.
John finally wiped his eyes. "Get in the damned car, Greg," he said. "You'll get our statements in the morning." He cast a significant glance at the car. "Late in the morning," he amended.
Lestrade seemed to come to a decision. He pushed himself to his feet, straightening his cuffs self-consciously. "Yeah. Well." A wide smile broke slowly over his face. "Ta, mates. See you tomorrow." Quick handshakes all around and then Greg was sliding into the car. John and Sherlock watched in amusement as it pulled smoothly away.
John leaned tiredly back against Sherlock. He had just turned his mind to wondering where in the hell they would get a cab out here when Donovan showed up at Sherlock's elbow.
"Lestrade said to give you lot a ride," she said, her usual barely-concealed hostility strangely absent.
John opened his mouth to decline, knowing how Sherlock abhorred riding in a panda car, but Sherlock interrupted.
"That would be lovely, Sally, thanks."
The ride was a blur. Sherlock settled John gently in the back seat, muttering something John couldn't hear to Sally and then sliding in next to him. By the time the car stopped John was lying on his good side, his head in Sherlock's lap, Sherlock's fingers tracing gentle patterns in his hair. He didn't even remember tipping over.
Sherlock helped him up and out of the car. "Ta, Sally," John managed, before blinking in confusion.
"What...?" he began.
Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's waist, careful of his bruised ribs, half-supporting and half-dragging him up the steps of 221 Baker Street.
"Mycroft kept up the rent," Sherlock said nonchalantly. "Mrs. Hudson readied the place for us before the press conference. I'm sure she'd love to welcome you home herself but she went to her sister's for a few days, just in case Moran came looking."
John tottered a bit, and Sherlock pulled him even closer as he opened the front door. John found himself blinking back tears at the familiar sight of the entryway.
They both stopped for a moment before tackling the seventeen steps leading up to their flat. Sherlock leaned against the wall, John resting heavily against him, face buried in his neck.
"Home," John murmured disbelievingly into Sherlock's skin.
He could feel Sherlock smile against his hair. "Home," Sherlock affirmed.
Loopy on exhaustion and painkillers, John vacantly let Sherlock guide him wherever he wanted. Sherlock settled him in his armchair, solicitously plumping the Union Jack pillow before placing it behind John's neck. John was then treated to the remarkable sight of Sherlock making tea in a clean kitchen.
He was already half-dozing, the empty cup was dangling from his hand, when Sherlock gently removed it and guided John upstairs. Sherlock peeled the filthy clothes off both of them and settling them into a warm bath, Sherlock's gangly body folded into the tub with John settled between his legs. John rested back against Sherlock's chest, drifting peacefully on the ripples of endorphins, painkillers, and warm water, distantly marveling at them both fitting into the tub so comfortably. Sherlock gently bathed them both, carefully avoiding the dressing on John's shoulder, and then bundled John into a towel and into his bed.
John gratefully crawled underneath the duvet, still somewhat overwhelmed at the thought of being back at home with Sherlock. He could hardly believe the crafty bastard hadn't told him all this time that 221 B was waiting for them.
He had almost drifted off before he realized that Sherlock was still standing by the bed, wrapped in his own towel, his long form limned silver in the moonlight.
"Hmmm?" John managed. "What's wrong?"
Sherlock looked unaccountably nervous, his gaze flicking from John's eyes to the dressing on his shoulder. "If I...I could sleep downstairs, if..." He stopped, and started again. "John I hurt you..."
"Oh, Christ. Get into bed, you enormous berk," John mumbled sleepily. "You're not sleeping away from me another day in your life if I have anything to say about it."
Sherlock's smile was incandescent as he shed the towel and slipped under the duvet. John hauled him in closer, settling into his side with a groan of contentment.
"G'night, love," he said, pressing a blurry kiss to whatever spot of skin was under his lips. Collarbone, he thought, but couldn't be arsed to make sure.
Sherlock pressed a tender kiss to the top of his head. "Good night, John."
John felt Sherlock's fingers again, tracing soothing patterns on his skin. Home, he thought again, as sleep swallowed him up.
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