Firstly I would like to apologize for the slightly late post, final review took a bit longer than normal. Sorry. _
My heartfelt thanks go to KaKiJo, oatniel, Sherlock'sLisbeth, Agar Loki, snapletonius, YoungCaterpillar, 8of9, The Lord Writer, ENTWolf, Drunken Strawberries, TakingItOutOnTheWall, Nimirie Eryn Lasgaleneo, jenpix, theivydaggers, BenAddiction, EJ 12212012, and all those who have followed/favorited this story. Your support has truly been phenomenal. ^_^
Much thanks also goes to my Beta, Helena Chauby, for her editing assistance.
And honorable mentions go to my flat mate, sounding board, and own personal Sherlock, Geoff. I'm really not kidding about the own personal Sherlock thing, here's an example:
"Geoff, where are my vitamins?"
"On the floor, next to the eyeball."
"How did the eyeball get over there?"
"The cat was playing with it."
Note: Said eyeball is actually a toy, not real, but still.
And now for what you've all been waiting for...
Chapter 24: The Heart of the Matter
Greg closed his eyes, his lips curling in a tiny smile as the warmth of the sun reached his skin through his thin, button up shirt. It was warm and sunny today, just bordering on hot, but Greg didn't mind. The weather had been oppressively sweltering and muggy for weeks now, this was a nice change of pace.
Summer had come on with a vengeance shortly after Sherlock and John had gotten out of the hospital. They'd only been there for three days, and even then Mycroft made sure they had a room to themselves. Sherlock was a notoriously awful patient, Greg had expected to have to bribe and/or threaten him to ensure he received the proper treatment. Sherlock, however, was surprisingly subdued. Well, perhaps not so surprisingly considering that John was with him.
Sherlock and John were intently focused on each other during their recovery and continued to share the same bed. As much as Lestrade wanted to see them properly together (Mycroft, who was usually right, had informed him that they were still not a 'real' couple) he believed the reason their bed remained shared was more for comfort than anything else, reassurance that they were both still alive.
While both Sherlock and John remained subdued, refusing to be separated beyond what was necessary (such as various tests/procedures and personal hygiene) Greg could see healing taking place both physically and emotionally. They were still Sherlock and John. They still bickered, Sherlock still deduced people, John still scolded him for being rude, and life went on.
During the end of their short stay in the hospital, Sherlock had felt well enough to corner a nurse who was speaking to her emotionally abusive father, and deduce the man to tears so that the nurse would be available to re-dress John's wounds. Greg had actually witnessed this event and had been expecting vicious backlash from the nurse. Instead the thin young woman with short black hair and dark brown eyes had silently watched her father go before turning back to Sherlock and fixing him with a brilliant smile. "I think I love you," she murmured.
"Sadly, miss, I am taken," Sherlock had replied, already beginning to roll his wheelchair back towards his room. His and John's wedding rings were still being held in evidence at that time, but no one was changing their story just yet. Greg figured Sherlock and John were waiting for things to return to a sense of normalcy before they addressed their marriage, and he hoped they would finally bleeding observe the truth before they did something foolish, like divorce.
"Aren't all the good ones?" The nurse asked with a wink, holding up her left hand as she followed beside Sherlock. On her ring finger was a thin platinum band housing a moderately sized blue topaz.
Sherlock nodded, polite now that he was getting what he wanted. "She's a lucky woman," he had murmured as the pair passed Greg in the hall.
Greg opened his eyes and sighed as he took in the cityscape. That had been over a month ago. After three days in the hospital Sherlock and John were stable enough to leave, but not to travel. Also, there was still a great deal of follow up to be done on the case at that time. Most of the paperwork and administrative tasks fell to Mycroft, Greg, and the local police force, but the statements and testimony of Sherlock and John would be invaluable. The case had been closed, but no one was going home just yet.
To focus on healing, and completing their obligations to the case, Sherlock and John had moved back to their hotel in the Hamptons. Mycroft had not been pleased. He'd wanted his brother and John to join him in the three floors of a skyscraper he'd been renting, but Sherlock wouldn't hear of it. Greg knew this was because he wanted some alone time with John.
It was almost laughable. Sherlock could deduce a room full of strangers at half a glance, but three years into his 'partnership' with John he'd yet to deduce his blogger's true feelings. Greg had no doubt the truth would come out, he'd never doubted it. Hell, Greg would make good on his promise to spell it out for them if he had to...but first, he had to deal with his own problems.
Greg clenched his jaw tightly and looked down at the roof he was standing on. They were meant to be leaving tomorrow. Sherlock and John were all but healed, and the case was neatly wrapped up. Evidence had been collected, paperwork completed, and statements and testimonies given. One of the reason's they'd even stayed this long was the confusion over where the trial would be held and where the criminals would serve time. Frank was going away with five life sentences; no possibility of parole. Luke was facing thirty years with the possibility of parole and mandated counseling. For Greg, at least, there was only one loose end to tie up...Mycroft.
They were going back to London tomorrow, and Mycroft would disappear again. That's what he always did. One minute you saw him, then you did't. Greg's fists clenched and released at his sides in anger. He took a slow breath, and made himself relax.
This was why he'd come up to the roof in the first place. He needed to think. He needed to decide what he was going to do. This mattered. He couldn't articulate why, exactly, he only knew that it did.
When the door to the roof opened behind him, Greg closed his eyes for a moment and nodded. Sometimes, the fight came to you.
"Sulking Gregory?" Mycroft's voice rang out clearly as he approached. "That's most unbecoming of a detective inspector. Especially one who makes big speeches about 'wanting to be useful.'"
Greg scowled, and turned to face Mycroft as soon as the elder Holmes brother stood by his side. "Mycroft," Greg began, "for one of the most observant people I've ever met, you are an idiot."
Mycroft stood silently for a moment, studying Greg as he had so many times before on this case. Mycroft probably intended to appear aloof, but Greg knew better. Mycroft was confused. He didn't know what to make of Greg's statement, so Greg pressed on.
"The case is over now, and you're going to disappear again. Just like you did before, just like you always do." Greg pressed his lips together in a thin, unhappy line. "Just like you did when Sherlock finally got clean. You just can't stand people getting close to you."
Mycroft's expression darkened. "Do not be obtuse, Gregory. You know the risks involved in my position."
Greg could understand some of Mycroft's reluctance to let people get close to him. Opening up, being vulnerable wasn't exactly a picnic for Greg either, but sometimes, it was worth the risk Greg knew his first marriage had ended, at least in part, because he had closed himself off. After all the heartache his reticence had caused, Greg didn't want it to be a part of any of the important relationships in his life.
"Besides," Mycroft continued, the picture of calm condescension. "We have never been particularly close."
"Did it ever occur to you that I might want to be?" Greg asked, taking a small step forward, invading Mycroft's personal space. Mycroft's eyes widened slightly in surprise and Greg pressed his advantage, knowing he had Mycroft off-balance. "This case, as awful as it has been, I actually liked working with you. I liked spending time around you, and your family."
Greg began gesturing as he picked up momentum, pointing at Mycroft. "You play dangerous games, Mycroft, with dangerous people. God knows what you get up to half the time; I sure as hell don't... but I'd like to." Greg softened a bit then, returning his hands to his sides as he looked up into Mycroft's pricing blue eyes." You pretend you don't have a heart, but we both know that isn't the truth. I've seen it when your staff is hurt, and every time your brother's been in danger." Greg paused, swallowed, and got to the point. "I'd like to keep seeing you, Mycroft."
Mycroft took a slow breath, carefully re-arranging his features, and illuminating the slightest hint of surprise. You sound as though you want to court me, Gregory."
Greg was caught between an urge to roll his eyes at Mycroft's archaic language and a hot flush that swept up his neck, encroaching on the edges of his cheeks. Greg looked away for a moment and fought the urge to move away. He was asking for honesty from Mycroft, it would only be fair to give the same. "I don't know, maybe?" Greg murmured, forcing himself to make eye contact. Mycroft's eyes widened noticeably, but Greg pressed on, determined. "I never really let myself think that far because I can't get past this idea that you're going to hold me at arm's length no matter what I want or what you agree to."
Emboldened, Greg took another step forward so that he and Mycroft were inches apart. "It can't work like that, Mycroft. I want to spend more time with you, and I hope you feel the same way, but if our..." Greg fumbled for words momentarily, "Whatever this is, if it's going to work at all there needs to be equal efforts on both sides." Greg's fingers twitched as he spoke. He wanted to rest his hand on Mycroft's shoulder, but he held himself back. "I'd like to see more of what you're hiding behind that mask you wear, Mycroft, but I won't chase you if you're determined to stay behind it."
Greg held Mycroft's pale gaze with his own, darker one. Greg stood still and vulnerable in front of Mycroft for a long moment...too long. As the seconds ticked by, and Mycroft's stoic face remained unchanged, Greg knew he had his answer. He let out a long, slow breath and let his eyes drop to the side. "Okay then," he murmured, nodding to himself. "Okay."
Greg shuffled his feet and moved to step around Mycroft, trying to swallow his disappointment. He'd barely managed three steps before he jerked to a stop, held back by Mycroft's fingers at his wrist. Greg followed the line of Mycroft's arm with his eyes, looking up towards his face. Mycroft was still turned away, his head tilted so that Greg could see his profile. "Stay, Gregory," Mycroft murmured, then he lifted his eyes to meet Greg's, and added, "please."
Greg paused, felt a smile tug at his lips, and shifted his hand so that their fingers interlocked. Greg leaned back towards Mycroft, squeezed his hand and said, "I'd like that." Mycroft turned towards Greg and returned his smile, making the detective inspector feel slightly giddy. He still wasn't sure quite what to call this 'thing' with Mycroft...but, whatever it was, this was a good beginning.
John stood on the balcony outside the rooms he shared with Sherlock, staring into the sea as it churned and roiled. It felt like a good metaphor for his emotions, unstable. He'd been drifting for a month, delaying the inevitable reality of his situation while he'd healed. He was still a bit sore and stiff, but that would fade with time. His cheek, however, would never be the same.
John lifted his left hand and traced the jagged, red lines the whip had left in the side of his face. With proper care it would fade over time, become less livid, but it was a permanent mark. It wasn't the only scar he'd take away from this case. Both Sherlock and he would bare whip scars on their torso, legs, and feet, but those were much smoother. Only John's cheek and Sherlock's thigh had required stitches, and those came out last week. They would fade into silvery discolorations within a year. Still, none of these was the most painful reminder of this case.
John's fingers fell away from his face, seeking out his pocket instead. They'd gotten their rings back today. The case was closed, the justice system in motion, and Sherlock and he were nearly healed. It was time to go home. They were supposed to leave tomorrow and John wasn't sure he could even make himself get on the plane.
He lifted his wedding ring into view and watched it sparkle in the fading twilight, holding it tightly. He didn't want to give it back...
This last month had felt like suspended time. Neither during the case, nor entirely after it. Sherlock and he had shared no more kisses or other intimate gestures. They hadn't spoken of their marriage at all.
John closed his eyes for a moment, picturing Sherlock's hands on him. They'd continued to share a bed for comfort and convenience... John had been afraid to sleep that first night, unsure what devilish nightmare his brain might release on him. Sherlock had encouraged John to lean his head on Sherlock's shoulder. The worlds only consulting detective had spent hours running his fingers through Johns hair and talking quietly to him until he felt safe enough to drift off.
This past month had been full of moments like that; Sherlock comforting John, and John comforting Sherlock. Sherlock, of course had been more stoic and reserved, but John had read the extra stiffness in his muscles like a neon sign.
They'd spent a great deal of time lying down in this past month, and the first time John had seen Sherlock struggle had been their first night back at the hotel. They were in a suite this time, to make them more comfortable as they recovered. John had woken from a doze to see Sherlock's back held in tense, rigid lines. John had slowly reached forwards, brushing his fingertips gently over Sherlock's pale skin. Sherlock hadn't reacted at first, but as John's fingers danced in circles over the planes of his husbands back, John saw the tension leech out of him. At length, John convinced Sherlock to lie on his back. They spent that night watching crap telly together and John laughed at Sherlock's rants until he thought his bandages would come undone.
The next day, they had slept in, holding each other. John suspected they spent more time touching each other this past month than in all the years they'd been flat mates prior to this case, even counting all the intimate moments they'd shared during their engagement and marrage.
There was one striking difference, however, between the touches they'd shared this past month and the touches they'd shared earlier in the case: None of the touches in this past month had been about romance or putting on a good performance of romance. Every touch, every embrace had been about reassurance. Each needed to know the other was safe, and healing. Hands had wandered over wounds, assessing, and over smooth planes of skin, soothing.
John's fingers shook as he held his ring and his eyes stung.
Sherlock was out at his final doctor's appointment. John had completed his three days ago but, of course, as Sherlock felt better he had found other, more 'interesting' things to occupy his mind such as antagonizing Lestrade or making John laugh.
John had been alone with his thoughts for an hour, and he knew what he had to do. He couldn't lie to Sherlock anymore. Sherlock had to know about John's feelings. He had to. How could he miss it? But this silence, these assumptions that maybe, just maybe their partnership could be salvaged weighed heavily on John's mind. He loved Sherlock, desperately, and if they were going to continue as they had been...if Sherlock would allow that, he needed to know how strongly John felt for him.
John closed his eyes and shoved the ring back inside his pocket. As much as he would like to wear it...he couldn't. Now that he knew he wanted to stay married to Sherlock, for all the reasons most people get married in the first place, it didn't feel right.
He didn't flatter himself that Sherlock felt the same, that was a reality his heart was too fragile to contemplate. No, the best he could hope for would be that Sherlock would tolerate John's affection without letting it change how they worked together...and even that sounded farfetched.
John hung his head and focused on his breathing. Earlier, when he'd first felt well enough to be up and about, to go for walks, he'd contemplated leaving. It was so painful to be around Sherlock, to be so close and not be able to touch him...at least, not like John wanted to. And it was only going to get harder when they flew home. John had even spent some time today, just after Sherlock had left, researching on his phone for jobs, apartments, countries that would take him away from Sherlock... In the end, after his phone was shaking too much to type properly, John decided, painful or not, he would rather stay...if Sherlock would let him.
It was ironic in a cruel, twisted sort of way. When Sherlock had fallen the first time, John hadn't been able to return to 221B for three months...but even in the midst of his all consuming grief, he hadn't been able to stay away. If Sherlock would let him, John would stay forever... If he didn't...if he'd misjudged the depths of John's feelings and asked him to leave...John thought he might very well need to look into other countries. History had already shown him that his home, in London, would always be 221B Baker Street.
The door clicked as it opened and John lifted his head up, opened his eyes, and tried to keep control of his breathing. Sherlock was back. It was time for the truth.
"Well that was tedious," Sherlock sighed dramatically, leaning against the balcony doorway for a moment.
John's lips quirked up in a smile, but he couldn't bring himself to turn around. "It wouldn't have been if you'd just cooperated as opposed to deducing the doctor and his staff."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved to stand beside John, leaning on the edge of the balcony. "I didn't deduce all of his staff."
John turned towards Sherlock, placing his hands on his hips and arching an accusatory eyebrow.
"I didn't!" Sherlock insisted, turning to face John, and standing defiantly straight. "I didn't have time to share my deductions about his new secretary, he called me back to an exam room too fast."
"ah huh. And I wonder why that was," John scolded, but his smile belied his tone.
Sherlock smiled back and raised his hand to cup John's cheek, his fingers tracing the scar. "That's healing well. Any pain?"
John sucked in a sudden breath at the contact and looked away. "No," he said softly, feeling himself go tense under Sherlock's hand.
Sherlock stilled and John could feel that penetrating gaze boring into him. "What's wrong?" Sherlock's voice had an urgency behind it that forced John to look up and meet his eyes.
"Nothing Sherlock," John began, trying to sooth his husband, "I'm fine."
"You are not fine," Sherlock snapped, his eyes darting back and forth over John's face, searching for data. "What is it?"
John wanted to take a breath, to calm himself, but he couldn't seem to draw the air in, choking on the importance of what he had to say, and how it would change them. "Sherlock I...," John paused, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips, a nervous gesture. It felt like Sherlock's eyes, his hands on John's face, all of it was pulling John in. For the life of him he would never figure out why people called it 'falling' in love. This didn't feel like falling. Drowning, spinning wildly out of control yes, but not falling. "I love you," John murmured.
Sherlock nodded slowly, his eyes still searching. "I know that John-"
"No, you don't!" John cut him off, stepping closer so that Sherlock's breath ghosted over his face. John reached up, resting his hand over the front of Sherlock's shirt. He only just managed not to pull at it, the fabric was tight enough that Sherlock would have lost a button for sure. "I love you," John repeated, "Not like a flat mate, or a best friend, but like the husband I'm pretending to be."
Sherlock's eyes widened and his body grew stiff. John crossed his arms in front of himself, self-conscious, and took a step back. John glanced out at the beach, then forced himself to meet Sherlock's eyes once more. As hard as this was, he deserved the truth. The whole truth.
"I don't know for how long. Maybe since before this case even started. I tried to ignore it, write it off as a crush, but it never went away." John paused again, and swallowed hard. "It only got stronger." Glancing out at the beach again, John pressed on. "It finally hit me that day we walked on the beach...then afterwards..." John trailed off, looking down and feeling a guilty blush heat up his face. God...he'd taken advantage of Sherlock. When they'd slept together... it hadn't been entirely about biology, not for John. God, how could he expect Sherlock to keep him on as a flat mate and a partner for his work when John had abused his trust that way?
John startled when he felt hands on his shoulders, his head snapped up and his eyes widened in shock to find Sherlock touching him. Sherlock was looking down at him with a thoughtful, disbelieving expression. "There's always something," Sherlock murmured, shaking his head slowly.
"What?" John sputtered, two steps behind as usual.
Sherlock's lips quirked in a faint smile and he leaned closer to John; so close that John could feel Sherlock's breath on his ear. "I love you too, John," Sherlock whispered.
John's eyes widened even further and he drew in a quick, stuttering breath. Tingles broke out all along his back, and he almost shook his head in disbelief. Sherlock Holmes loved him?
John's mouth opened and closed a few times before he could manage, "But...you're work...?"
Sherlock pulled back enough to face John, his pale blue/gray eyes seeking out John's darker gaze. Sherlock's hands slipped up John's neck to cradle his face once more. "John, I meant every word I said when I proposed to you. Every single word."
John's mouth fell open as he remembered the words that began this odyssey:
" John Hamish Watson, I never thought I could fall in love. I had always regarded love as a chemical defect found on the losing side; a weakness. I never thought I would encounter sentiment I could not rationalize or ignore, and then I met you. Someone so simple, so grounded, and so full of surprises. I still couldn't say why you shot that cabbie for me, but there you were. You've been protecting me from myself ever since.
"...Still I couldn't say that I loved you, until it was almost too late." Sherlock swallowed and paused, adding weight to his next words. "But I knew I loved you when I stepped off the roof of St. Bart's.
"...That was why, more than anything, I had to fake my death. I could not let anything happen to you. If it would keep you safe, I'd do it again."
And he had done it again, hadn't he? Christ, they were both such idiots. John grinned and shook his head, still having trouble believing...
Well, there was only one thing to do now. Leaning up on his toes, John pulled Sherlock down into a fierce, passionate kiss. Sherlock responded enthusiastically, wrapping his arms tightly around John's waist. John's world dissolved into the slow slide of lips, tongues, and teeth as his fingers became hopelessly lost in Sherlock's dark curls.
John felt himself being pushed back into the wall, and groaned softly into Sherlock's mouth, arousal pooling low in his abdomen.
Sherlock began kissing and nibbling his way across John's cheek, down his neck. Long, violinist fingers slipped under the hem of John's shirt, caressing the skin of his torso.
John pressed into Sherlock's touch, feeling dizzy. After waiting, agonizing, for so long, John felt drunk on the sensation of Sherlock pressed against him. God, how had they ever had so many misunderstandings? How had they both missed this? They'd both spoken about the importance of being honest with each other during this case and yet, they'd both only offered half truths. Not anymore, John decided. This mattered too much to get it wrong. With effort, John managed to push back and say, "Sherlock, wait...stop."
"What?" Sherlock snapped, glaring a little as he pulled back.
"Sherlock, we need to talk first," John replied, trying to steady himself against the wall and gather his senses.
"Talking is boring," Sherlock murmured, leaning in and grazing his teeth against the pulse point on John's neck.
"Sherlock," John insisted, pushing against the taller man's shoulders lightly, "please, this is important."
Sherlock heaved a sigh of agitation, but eased himself back enough to look down into his husband's eyes. "Yes?"
"I love you," John began.
"Yes, we've established that, John," Sherlock said tersely. He softened, however, under John's glare. His hands settled firmly on John's hips and he murmured, "I love you too, John. What's the problem?"
John worried his bottom lip for a moment before he said, "I meant what I said earlier, Sherlock. I'd like to...to stay married to you."
Sherlock blinked, and then a slow smile formed on his lips. His agile fingers slipped into John's pocket and, before the good doctor could protest, Sherlock was holding up John's wedding ring. He must have deduced that John was keeping the ring on him, no surprise there.
"John Hamish Holmes," Sherlock began, a small smirk forming on his lips, "I have no intention of letting you give up that name." Sherlock took John's left hand in his and slid his wedding ring back where it belonged. At the same moment Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to John's lips. "I did warn you that I was possessive," Sherlock murmured as he pulled back.
John grinned up at him. "I wouldn't have it any other way. I knew who you were when I agreed to room with you." John glanced down at their hands and asked, "Where's your ring?"
Sherlock produced his ring from his own trouser pocket and handed it to John. John took Sherlock's longer hand in his and slid the wedding ring home. "I love you," John said quietly, still reeling at the fact that, somehow, Sherlock loved him back. He smiled down at their joined hands for a moment, reminded of their wedding day. It was crazy, the way things had turned out...but it was also kind of perfect.
"I love you too, John," Sherlock murmured. Sherlock's thumb began to rub small circles against the back of John's hand, and he pressed a small kiss to John's forehead. "Do you want to have another wedding?"
John let out a small snort of laughter and shook his head. "No, that won't be necessary." John lifted his gaze, smiling brightly. "I like the wedding we had. I really wouldn't change a thing." Sherlock gave John's hands a squeeze and leaned forward until his forehead rested gently against John's. John closed his eyes and grinned, beyond happy. "Normally the people getting married declare their love for each other before the wedding," John observed quietly, glancing up at Sherlock, "but you don't really do normal."
"Normal is boring," Sherlock agreed swooping in for another kiss.
John leaned up, pressing himself into Sherlock, sliding his hands up Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's hands skimmed down to John's waist, and began tugging at his shirt. When John felt warm summer air against his sides he pulled back enough to whisper, "Sherlock, not out here."
"You can't tell me it's because you're worried people will see," Sherlock whispered, close to John's ear. Sherlock's fingers trailed over John's right nipple causing his blogger to gasp and clutch at his shoulders.
John wasn't about to deny the little thrill that risk of discovery gave him, but he insisted, "Please, Sherlock, there's a perfectly good bed inside, and I'm not as young as I used to be."
Sherlock arched an eyebrow and John and smirked. "You're young enough."
John began walking backwards into their room while he had the chance, pulling Sherlock after him and chuckling to himself. "You," John murmured, "are going to be the death of me."
Sherlock breathed an answering chuckle against John's lips. "Not if I have anything to say about it."
CENSORED CONTENT.
Long, breathless minutes later tight muscles and locked joints began to ease. Sherlock nuzzled into John's neck, buzzing with endorphins.
"God, I love you," John panted, stretching up to nibble at Sherlock's earlobe.
Sherlock chuckled in his ear. "I love you too, John." Sherlock pressed an open mouthed kiss across John's jaw and added, "I think I may develop the awful pattern of repeating myself.
It was John's turn to laugh. "I think, in this case, we can make some allowances for that, Sherlock." John turned his head and drew Sherlock into a deep, dizzying kiss as they reveled in the afterglow.
"I don't think I can move," John groaned, grin spreading across his lips.
Sherlock pressed a short, chaste kiss to John's lips before he replied, "I think I can manage." Gently, Sherlock eased himself out of John, kneading his husbands trembling thigh muscles for a moment before he staggered towards the bathroom for a flannel. He returned a minute later, damp flannel in hand and tenderly cleaned his blogger and himself.
Assured that they wouldn't wake up sticky, Sherlock tossed the soiled flannel in the laundry bin, and nestled into the bed, beside John. John gravitated towards his husband, twining their limbs together and resting his head on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock managed, though it took some maneuvering, to tuck the duvet around them both, and settled back into the pillows.
"I don't want to go to London tomorrow," John said quietly, his voice muffled against Sherlock's chest.
"Hm?" Sherlock replied, glancing down into John's damp hair.
John shifted and looked up, his eyes finding Sherlock's blue/grey ones. "While I don't want to redo the wedding, this was definitely not a honeymoon."
Sherlock smiled softly and pressed a kiss into John's forehead. "Where would you like to go? I'll call Mycroft early and have our tickets changed."
John thought for a moment, trailing his fingers in looping patterns over Sherlock's chest. At last he said, "You choose. Surprise me." When Sherlock arched a suspicious eyebrow John chuckled and insisted, "I mean it. I trust you. I know you'll pick some place interesting; just make sure it's not also filled with bugs or something." John stretched languorously, then added, "I'm not having sex if I'm covered in mosquito bites."
Sherlock nodded solemnly. "No Palo Verde, got it."
"Where's Palo Verde?" John asked sleepily. Now that he was warm and sated, and things were finally, finally, resolved,he felt like he could sleep for days.
John felt Sherlock smile into his hair as he murmured, "It's a tropical swamp in Costa Rica."
"Hmmm," John replied, feeling sleep tugging insistently at him. Dimly, he was aware of Sherlock shifting, rolling onto his side. John snuggled up to Sherlock's back, looping an arm around his waist, and hooking a leg over his thin hips. John pressed his forehead in-between Sherlock's shoulder blade, surprised at how well he fit there. He'd thought, because of their height difference, that he'd be awkward as the big spoon; he wasn't. He seemed to fit perfectly against his husband. "S'This comfy?" John asked, his voice stretched in a yawn.
"Yes," Sherlock replied, almost purring the word as he nestled back into John's warm embrace.
John closed his eyes and smiled as he felt Sherlock's steady heartbeat fluttering under his fingers.
They'd gone through a lot over the years, and especially during this case. Through torture, through judgment, through danger, and through webs of malevolence thick enough to bring a nation to its knees. But right now, wrapped around his infuriatingly brilliant husband like a blanket, John felt he would never want for anything else, ever again.
A deep, sleepy voice broke the drowsy reverie "John?"
"Yes, Sherlock?" John mumbled into the skin of the consulting detective's long back.
"You're thinking too loudly. Go to sleep."
Sherlock couldn't see it, pressed as John was against his back, but the good doctor grinned like a fool and replied, "Yes, Sherlock."
Gosh I can't believe we've gotten this far. Well, I'd always intended to but still, I don't think I've ever written anything this long before. There's an epilogue coming next week, so I do hope you'll stick around for that. You'll get to see a bit more Mystrade, as well as more of a glimpse at how Sherlock and John are doing. I know the Mystrade's been slow, but nothing I did could convince those two to move any faster and I knew if I didn't believe the pacing, none of my dear readers would either.
Also coming next week: A discussion of my immediate writing plans and a preview for my next multi-chapter Johnlock.
So, I hope to see you all next week. This story has been epically fun to write, and it will be difficult to see it end. However, it is my hope, that it will be a satisfying ending for all.