Oh, hey! Look at that - an update that isn't a month late! Well, my friends, after this chapter there is one more and then an epilogue. It's almost done. I want to thank everyone for sticking through with me and for all the wonderful reviews and follows. You guys make me so happy! Have a fantastic week, my loves! XOXO

"Tomorrow" was apparently code for "Let's be as late as possible and trip over every obstacle on our way out of the flat". After coming home from Scotland Yard (Lestrade had suggested that they set up a plan of action in case things went pear shaped) ten minutes to five, twenty minutes late, it seemed fate was working against them, determined to make them late to the competition. They argued over who was going to shower first (John won by yelling 'Fuck it all' at the top of his lungs and storming into the bathroom) and then they weren't able to find clean tuxedo trousers because somebody (Sherlock) hadn't done the laundry as asked. They were just about to leave the flat when Sherlock realized they were forgetting their music in the music room.

By the time they'd hailed a cab and settled themselves in the backseat, Sherlock and John could have easily been named 'London's Best Dressed and Grouchiest Couple'. And of course, it just had to rain – making visibility difficult for the cabbie – which made them travel at little more than a snail's pace. Sitting on either side of the cab, Sherlock and John weren't on speaking terms with each other. Sherlock was furious at John and John was subsequently angry that Sherlock was mad at him for no good reason.

Sherlock huffed out a breath of air and glowered out the window. Of course John had insisted on shaving, and they'd both had to shower, and 'absolutely under no account, Sherlock, can we just stop eating; just eat one slice of toast, for Christ's sake?'

John kept his arms folded as he breathed in and closed his eyes. Of course Sherlock had to be an irritating cock the day of the competition. And he had to be difficult about everything and would absolutely, under no account listen to a single word John said. John sighed and nearly accepted defeat. This 'not talking' business was too tense for him to deal with the day of the competition and the last thing he needed was to be more anxious than he already was.

Sherlock looked over at John, reading his body language. Something clicked and made Sherlock's heart soften. There was absolutely no way he would break his promise to John that he would take care of him. And their not talking and silently fuming at each other was most decidedly not taking care of John Watson. Letting out a slow, relaxing breath, Sherlock loosened his posture. He would not stay mad at John. Not today. He needed to be attuned to what was going on, what John was feeling, or he wouldn't be able to take care of him efficiently.

John noticed the shift in Sherlock's persona, the taller man relaxing his tense frame against the seat, and felt cautious. Since when did Sherlock get over a strop so quickly and without motivation- motivation which usually meant John begging Sherlock to forgive him and making lascivious promises to put him in a better mood? Maybe it was the prospect of finally finishing the case, or the thrill of performing on stage, or maybe (and more likely, John thought meanly in his head) Sherlock wanted something. Whatever it was made John slightly uncomfortable. This was going to be one of the hardest days of his life – bar none. John felt something needed to fill the air, so he glanced at Sherlock.

"So why did you go back into the house last night? Lestrade said you found something else."

Sherlock snorted. "It was right under their noses. Of course they couldn't see that."

"Yeah, but what was it?"

"It's what wasn't there. Have you noticed, John, that after every murder, something is missing?"

John shook his head. At least Sherlock was talking to him. That was good, nice progress. "No."

"But there is. At Nora Rank's house, there was a letter and a photograph missing from one of the bedrooms. You didn't know because you stormed out before I could tell you. At Catherine Lipton and William Barton's house, Catherine's engagement ring was missing. This time, the girl's phone was missing."

"Her phone? But I thought she was homeless, how could she have had a-?"

"She was in my homeless network. I gave it to her." Sherlock replied quickly. John stilled.

"Oh. Oh, love, I'm so—"

"Don't apologize" Sherlock cut him off quickly, his voice emotionless. "She was new and craved heroin to a dangerous degree. It made her unstable, unpredictable, and easily bought by anyone willing to give her money for the drug in exchange for information. She wasn't much use to me. In any case, every time something comes up missing it has to do with the victim's romantic attachment in some way. In this particular case, it was so she couldn't contact me for help. But the point, John, is that our killer is also a collector. A serial killer who collects mementos from his murders. It's fascinating."

John huffed. "If by 'fascinating' you mean 'demented,' then yes. Yes, it is."

Only a hum was Sherlock's reply as he glanced out of the window. John stared straight ahead, unfolding his arms. This whole thing was a mess and it was starting to make his head swim. He just hoped Sherlock had a handle on the situation and knew what to do. Otherwise…

Sherlock reached across the seat and grasped John's hand. They were getting close to the auditorium.

"John." Sherlock whispered and John looked into Sherlock's eyes, feeling himself relax. Sherlock's eyes were tender and so full of care that John felt a bit better about the situation.

"It's almost over, love." Sherlock smiled slightly. It was true. They were almost free.

John nodded as the cab pulled up to their stop and Sherlock gathered their belongings. The good doctor breathed in and out slowly, gathering his courage and presence of mind. Sherlock opened the door after throwing some cash at the cabbie and looked back at John.

"Ready?"

John nodded and picked up his sheet music.

"I'm ready."

As it turned out, John was most emphatically not ready. Standing backstage with Sherlock, Demetri, and the other contestants, John felt light-headed. Demetri had been making shifty eyes at him and Sherlock since he came off the stage, leaving a standing ovation in his wake. It didn't help John's nerves – although he knew it should have – that Lestrade and the team was systematically placed throughout the auditorium, waiting for the signal to make the arrest.

John breathed out and looked over at Sherlock. They were next. Just a little while longer, and he would be done with his performance. He kept telling himself that, imaging what he would do once this was all over. He'd treat himself, John decided, treat himself to a full, wonderful buffet of Sherlock's body and stay in bed for days.

Sherlock, looking cool and calm, was aware of John's nerves and wished that he could wrap him up in a big cocoon, keeping him safe and away from this place. Demetri was standing close-by, watching them intently, which seemed odd. Sherlock knew the young man wouldn't move in for the kill right here, right in front of the other contestants. Witnesses were never ideal for a killer. Sherlock also knew that the murderous, maniacalglint in the man's eye was not for show. Something big was going to happen.

Suddenly, it dawned on him.

John turned to ask Sherlock how much longer the song could go on (it wouldn't bother him a bit if it went on a few minutes more)…but only found empty space beside him. John's eyes widened as he saw Sherlock's coat tails fluttering to the rear of the stage, near the stairs leading to the rafters.

"I'm going to die." John thought as his fellow competitor, Olivia Hansburg, walked offstage with all the grace and poise of a princess. She looked back at John and winked, giving him a sweet smile. John wondered if he could fake that much confidence. Any other day he would've been able to. Today…he didn't think so. Swallowing nervously, John glanced around, looking for Sherlock again, wondering where in the hell he'd gone. He'd left him alone, all alone with a serial killer on the loose-

A rough hand grabbed John's upper arm, ripping him from his thoughts. He jolted like a skittish colt and whirled around, heart in his throat, thinking he was being attacked-

"Dr. Watson! It's yours and Mr. Holmes' turn onstage. Where is Mr. Holmes?" Mrs. Lynn hissed at him, her clipboard clutched in her hand, looking incredibly harried.

"I don't, uh, he's..." John stammered, glancing around for a glimpse of his partner. "He's here somewhere-"

Mrs. Lynn, though, wasn't waiting a second longer.

The next thing John knew, he was being forcefully pushed onto the stage. By himself. With one million eyes trained on him and him alone.

John froze – his heart in his throat. He knew there weren't a million eyes trained on him, but it definitely felt that way. Everyone in the audience was staring at him. Waiting on him to do…something. John's breath shakily left him as he walked, stiff-limbed, to the microphone.

"G-Good evening." John cleared his throat, his breath seeming to lodge in the middle of his chest, painful and suffocating. "My name is Dr. John Watson and I'm…well…I'm a doctor." John paused for the scattered chuckles in the audience, feeling a flush creeping up his neck. "My accompaniment has disappeared for our portion so…so without further ado…I present 'Leaves on the Water' – composition by Brian Crain. Thank you."

Sherlock's heart pounded as he climbed onto the stage rafters, spotting a sniper sitting in the stage right corner, his gun beside him. Sherlock steeled himself and climbed higher, using the ropes not connected to the curtains to his advantage, dropping behind the sniper and pressing John's gun to his head.

As the cool barrel kissed the back of his head, the sniper's hands came up, slowly and cautiously. He sat still, frozen, not making any movements.

"You take aim at John Watson, and I will end you." Sherlock growled menacingly.

The sniper chuckled, his hands still in the air. "Mr. Holmes," he whispered, "you're mistaken."

Sherlock lowered the gun and stared in confusion as the man turned towards him, lowering his hood.

"Markovic? What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

John stared at the keys on the piano for half a second before placing shaking hands on the instrument. This was the moment he'd sworn against ever since he was sixteen years old. It was the whole reason he was targeted and the whole reason he was shaking. For a trained soldier and doctor, John was terrified. It'd been years. Decades even. And now it was here and staring him in the face, teeth bared and hackles raised.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, John began the song. He tried to relax but the more he played, the more he felt an overwhelming sensation of being watched. The worry that he would mess up also increased, making his chest tight. John surprised himself when he hit a flat note.

"That's not acceptable, Johnny boy." Jacob's voice reverberated through his memory.

Jacob…

In an instant, hot anger and determination shot through John's body as memories of Jacob shaking his head in disappointment flashed through his mind. John clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, focusing on only the music.

John was done. He was done hiding from his first love. He was done avoiding music. He was done with the overpowering feeling of being a disappointment to Jacob and the guilt which had browbeaten him for so many years over not being able to save his cousin. John was done not giving Sherlock all of himself by keeping the piano away from him. Most of all, John was absolutely done with this case.

Below him, Sherlock saw John picking up the pace of the song in the crescendo and key change. John was morphing and driving the music home, sending shivers down Sherlock's spine with how beautifully he played. Sherlock could hardly breathe as he watched John's face contort into something determined and powerful, his body swaying in time to the music and the piano delivering all of the raw emotion trapped within his body. It was there for all to see: John's passion. The music flowed freely from his fingers and filled the air around him. Sherlock glanced at Markovic, who had a surprised expression at John's gift. Sherlock could remember his companion forming similar expressions whenever he played his violin. The genius smiled proudly and gestured to John.

"That artist is mine."

Markovic couldn't help but smile at the unmasked pride in his friend's voice.

"He's absolutely remarkable, Sherlock. Best I've heard in years. You're a lucky man."

Sherlock's eyes glistened as he watched the audience beneath him. They were all dumbstruck and looked as if they'd fallen completely in love with John. Just as he himself had.

"You have no idea."

When the song came to a close, John let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and looked up at the audience. To his surprise, no one budged, no one made a sound, and no one tore their eyes away from him.

It started somewhere in the back of the audience – just a few claps. Within a matter of seconds, the scattered applause became a deafening roar. People stood from their seats and cheered, making John feel completely thrown off kilter. Glancing down, he could see the judges were clapping enthusiastically, smiling and nodding at him.

Tears stung the back of his eyes as John smiled to the audience and stood, bowed, and was nearly knocked over by the applause. After a couple of seconds, John gathered his music, bowed once more, and walked calmly offstage. Once he was behind the curtain, he was met with a bone crushing hug.

"John, John, my John." He heard Sherlock whispering in his ear, the detective's breaths tickling his ear.

John gripped Sherlock tightly and let out a sobbing laugh. He'd never been so relieved. Sherlock drew back and placed a firm kiss on John's lips, and John could see the obvious pride radiating from Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock," John gasped, "what happened to your cheek, love?"

"What? Oh this?" Sherlock pulled away, dabbing at the still wet blood on his cheek. "Apparently it's considered to be bad manners when you sit with your boyfriend's would-be assassin in the rafters. People like Demetri Schmit become violent."

John blanched. "What?!"

Just then, Markovic appeared beside Sherlock. John's eyes widened as this building of a man towered beside Sherlock. Markovic was a large man – close to seven feet tall – and was apparently as quiet as a church mouse. John felt himself have to look up just to see the man's face.

"Dr. Watson, allow me to introduce myself." He began in his thick Russian accent, "My name is Yegor Markovic. I was hired by Demetri Schmit to assassinate you. Unfortunately for Mr. Schmit, I was once a very close comrade of Mr. Holmes, here. We worked several cases together in the past, and I find myself completely in debt to these Holmes fellows. I, in fact, work for his brother from time to time, you see, and once I realized who you are, I – shall we say – politely declined my offer."

Markovic motioned to his left with his head where Lestrade was cuffing Demetri and leading him out of the room. John couldn't help but stare at the rather large bruise forming on the young man's face, along with drying blood on his nose and mouth. A slow grin spread across John's face for a moment. Finally. It was over. Suddenly a thought pushed its way through his relief.

"But if you work for Mycroft occasionally," John ssaid, "why would you accept a job to kill me?"

Markovic shrugged. "It's a paycheck. Besides, Mr. Schmit was constantly trying to mislead me. I was to believe that you were some sort of criminal sent to destroy him. I knew your name was familiar, and your face looked familiar as well, so I stayed my bullet. I do want to apologize for the incident. Had I known who exactly you are and who you're with," Markovic nodded towards Sherlock, "I would have told Schmit to fuck off a lot sooner."

John nodded and moved with Sherlock to the stage door, stepping out with him into the hallway once Markovic gave an apology and wished the couple the best of luck. Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around John and pressed his good cheek against his love's head.

"There. That wasn't so bad."

That did it. John laughed. He laughed as if he'd never laughed before, which threw Sherlock into a fit of giggles and they stood there in the hallway, clutching the wall and each other for support as tears rolled off their cheeks from the force of their laughter. Relief and adrenaline finally caught up to them as they rode out their hysterics. John gripped Sherlock's hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, smiling and taking in shuddering breaths. Sherlock then pressed a firm kiss to John's lips.

"Am I going to keep walking in on you two in compromising situations?" Lestrade asked dryly as he walked towards them from down the hall.

John looked up, flushing. He had to bring that one up, didn't he?

"Ah, Gavin." Sherlock greeted happily, refusing to be embarrassed.

"Greg." John and Lestrade simultaneously corrected him and Sherlock gave a noncommittal shrug, not caring one way or the other about it. In truth, he knew Gregory Lestrade's actual name. He just liked to wind everyone up about it.

"John, mate, you were absolutely brilliant out there. Sherlock told me you'd be playing undercover, but I had no idea you were so good. I hope you win."

John nodded, still embarrassed but smiling. "Ta. Thanks, Greg."

Lestrade nodded and gestured with his thumb back towards the entrance of the building. "We've got our killer in a squad car on the way to the Yard. I told the team I'd be right along once I'd seen you two. Now. I will need your statements, but not tonight. John, go enjoy the rest of the competition and take a night off. I'll see you two tomorrow, yeah?"

"Absolutely. Thanks so much, Greg."

As the men parted ways, the stage door opened and Mrs. Lynn popped her head out.

"They're about to announce the winners. Come on, you two." She directed, albeit kinder this time once she'd witnessed firsthand what exactly had been happening under her nose the entire week.

All of the contestants – minus one, of course – were standing together backstage, listening intently to the judge as he led his speech up to the final result of the competition. Olivia and Charles spotted the pair and smiled broadly at them.

"Oh, John, you were absolutely fantastic! I'm blown away." Olivia whispered to him. "You deserve to place."

"Shh!" someone reprimanded from the front of the line. "He's about to announce the winners."

Offstage, the group leaned in and listened closely.

"…Once the prizes are given, the winners will present their pieces once more, for everyone's pleasure. Now, on to the results. Taking the first place prize of five hundred pounds for her original composition, 'Denial', is Miss Olivia Hansburg."

Olivia's face comically shifted from excitement to shock as she was practically manhandled onto the stage to receive her reward. John looked over at Charles, clapping along with the audience for his daughter, his face radiating pride and love for his little girl. Once Olivia was backstage again, tears streaming down her face, the judge continued.

"Taking second place with a prize of three hundred pounds, with his rendition of 'Aria' by Giovanni Allevi, is Justin Moore."

A sandy haired, wiry student with large plastic glasses in the middle of the group walked onto the stage, practically vibrating with excitement as the judge handed him his prize. The young man seemed to soak up the applause from the audience like a sponge. John recognized him as one of the students who'd pretended to play the piano while he waited for his turn during rehearsals and while waiting for his performance. Once he was back stage, a woman who'd been let in at Mrs. Lynn's permission – possibly his mother – hugged him tightly with tears in her eyes.

"Finally, we have third place. Despite the fact that this contestant did not present his original submission, we have decided to present this award regardless."

John felt his stomach somersault. Oh god.

"In third place with a prize of two hundred and fifty pounds, with his surprisingly emotional performance of 'Leaves on the Water' by Brian Crain, is Doctor John Watson!"

The next few minutes were a bit fuzzy for John. He knew he walked onto the stage and shook the judge's hand. He knew the roar from the audience was extremely enthusiastic, reaching the energy it had done when he'd finished performing. And he knew he felt like crying with sheer joy. Once he was backstage once more with Sherlock, still feeling dazed, he felt two arms fly around his neck as Olivia squealed in his ear.

"Congrats, John! You deserve it!" She beamed up at him as she eased away, making room for Sherlock at his side. "I can't wait to hear more from you."

John grinned. "Thanks. I can't wait to play without all this pressure!"

After Olivia walked back to her father, John turned to Sherlock with a bright gleam in his eye. Sherlock kissed him once more and squeezed his shoulder.

"Well, Doctor Watson, after your performance what do you propose we do?" Sherlock asked, grinning.

"I say we get dinner and then get the hell home!" John laughed, wishing he didn't have to play again and wishing he could take Sherlock home now.

"Agreed." Sherlock nodded, smiling, "John, I can't tell you how…"

"Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Lynn interrupted, "Are you ready to give your encore?"

John smiled at Sherlock and nodded. "Absolutely."