A/N: This is the final chapter. I was hoping to continue this but with season four...to say I'm disappointed would be like saying Mycroft likes cake.
I must also add that I haven't seen the last episode. Any errors thus, are of my own negligence. Blame it on the ending not being Johnlock.
More importantly, I would like to thank SilentRaven97 and Berrybanana05 without whom this story might never have been completed.
Also, thanks to Ravenclaw fangirl forever, aficionada-de-libros, themysetrious98, Starcross123, HelaofHalheim, Suealpacamama, Cakelle, Femzey, OncomingEastWind, Thilbo4ever, bis123, shadiandshadow and Mason de Sercoeur. Thanks all! I know I am the laziest author in existence so thank you for sticking with me.
Just one more thing. This chapter is an epilogue of sorts. If you want some season four, read The Lying Doctor and then this chapter.
Life was well.
Sherlock and John now live in a cottage down in Sussex (Janine sold her cottage to Sherlock upon Magnussen's death).
When Sherlock quit detective work, he had his dramatic exit executed to perfection. It was after the end of an international case and the king(s) threatened to make Sherlock the richest man alive.
"The common classes" he said in his low baritone, "deserve a new hero". And, obviously, he whipped his coat and walked out of the door with John by his side. The two constants that defined Sherlock.
John needn't know Sherlock quit because John's shoulder was hurting him. But of course, John did. They did not need words to communicate.
When Sherlock said he intended to retire in Sussex, John did not bat an eyelid. Sherlock dearly wanted to ask him to come with him. He packed his bags with a dejected air, irritated that John couldn't take a hint. Misunderstandings always led to their goodbyes. The journey was miserable and Sherlock slept in the empty house, determined to go back and beg John to come back. He wouldn't let a misunderstanding tear them apart! Not again.
The next day found John at the cottage door, ready with his bags to move into the cottage. He also, it seemed, arranged for an apiary to be constructed in his, no, their backyard. Sherlock did not explain that the cottage was a double bedded one. He didn't explain that he had spent the previous night cleaning the bedroom next to his. If John found some medical texts in his bedroom, it was pure coincidence. But of course, they did not need words. Where Sherlock was, there was John also.
Sherlock merely smiled, and simply said:
"I would be lost without my blogger"
Years went by, and for the first time in Sherlock life, he had found peace. Home was with his John. Life was complete.
SHSHSHSH
Someone, Pascal, Sherlock believed, said that man's problems arise due to his inability to sit in a room quietly.
"John?" he said, looking away from the letter Mycroft had sent him.
"Hmm?" John said, placing the kettle on the stove to make tea, not really paying attention.
Both of them were in the kitchen. Sherlock, in his usual spot at the dining table where he could see his precious bees while John was cooking breakfast.
"John!"
John turned suddenly. There was something wrong with the way Sherlock spoke.
"What is it?" John asked, all traces of domesticity gone.
After all these years, it still amazed Sherlock how dangerous John Watson could be. He was a bullet in a jumper, a lion who looked like a kitten. True his shoulders hurt a lot these days but John Watson could still beat you in a fight.
"There's something...something I've always wanted to say..and never have" Sherlock began, not daring to look into John's eyes.
John stopped and stared. Surely, surely, surely, the ghosts of your past never leave you do they?
John's eyes forced Sherlock to look up. John's posture asked him with urgency,
"What is it?"
To which Sherlock's fingers replied,
"Open the box on the table"
John's fingers fumbled to open the simple latch of the box. All this while, John's eyes never left Sherlock.
"Just. Tell me what it is" John's eyes begged Sherlock.
"I'm too much of a coward to do that" Sherlock's bent head told John.
John opened the wooden box. It contained one sheet of paper and nothing else. With a sinking heart, he opened the sheet.
It was an echocardiogram. John's. On the night of the fall. John's eyes widened with understanding.
The spikes on the sheet, coincidentally, matched his current heart rate.
Sherlock looked up, smiling in a bitter way. Sherlock's posture looked like that of a man making his biggest gamble.
"Why now?" John's twitching fingers and ragged breath asked him.
Once again, Sherlock's fingers answered by giving him a small slip of paper. It was the letter from Mycroft.
Your only relationship. Built on lies? Tell him.
John had no idea what to do. Have you ever read a fairytale when you were young and wished to God that it was true? And, what would you do, after ten years, if you find out it is true? John cleared his tears to look at Sherlock.
Sherlock's eyes asked him to look at his hand. John's eyes complied. Sherlock's hand now held a small box...a ring box?
Sherlock's fingers answered the unasked question. He opened the box, the platinum ring still shining.
"Is it..?" John didn't even have to ask.
Sherlock nodded. Then, Sherlock's knees asked the biggest question.
"Will you marry me?"
John's freely flowing tears answered.
"Oh God, yes."
Sherlock's fingers slipped the ring into John's finger, happiness threatening to engulf him whole. John was his.
"After everything I've put you through?" John's hand in Sherlock's hand asked him.
The inscription on the ring answered:
It was always you John Watson
They did not need words.
SHSHSHSH
"Sir, I must insist you take your medicine. Our country's financial affairs can come second" Anthea said, looking at Mycroft.
Both of them sat in the loveseat of their home. Needless to say, Mycroft fridge was no longer empty. Same went for his heart.
Mycroft smiled at the woman. She was his constant.
" No, not finance. These are..." he showed her the echocardiograms. It was full of spikes, not that Anthea was an expert. The name read: John Hamish Watson.
"Oh my God! Are these...John on the night of the fall?"
"Indeed. It would seem that John never thought about these. I am surprised actually. All those years of doubt..and it was right under his nose, being a doctor and all"
"And, why are you looking at them now?"
"Of course. Sherlock asked me to show you this."
The letter ran:
William Sherlock Scott Holmes and John Hamish Watson would like to cordially invite you to their wedding on the fifth of August. Cake will be served.
It would seem that misunderstandings were no longer a part of Sherlock's life and he was infinitely grateful.
A/N: That's it you all! Thanks for sticking with me!