Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

This is the last part, thank you all once more for reading and your patience.

Enjoy!

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To the Core

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Part 6

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A sense of peace settled around them as they sat at the kitchen table, chopping up vegetables. The experiments and microscope had been moved aside, and the room less resembled a laboratory for once. John had simply handed Sherlock a cutting board, a knife and some peppers with the instruction to cut them into pieces, which Sherlock did while John cut up some tomatoes and onions. They barely talked, but at one point they simultaneously reached for the roll of paper towels which was lying in the middle of the table.

"Sorry," John said, but Sherlock caught his hand and held it tightly in his for a moment, not looking up. John's fingers felt empty afterwards.

Sherlock watched John as he cooked; he had never been interested in domestic tasks and was not particularly now, but he liked how John moved. His motions were economically and precise, and he seemed completely in control of the situation. He set up a pot of rice, then he melted some butter in a pan, put the onions into it to sweat, added some broth, white wine, a few spices, a bit of cream, a few spoons of creamed coconut and the vegetables. Once he had poured a glass of chick peas into the mix, he turned down the heat and let it stew for a while, clearing the table in the meantime.

They ate in silence, but it was companionable rather than tense. Both of them were tired after the past few days, worn out. John saw how Sherlock was picking at his food, but at least he ate a little bit, which was still better than nothing.

After the meal, they cleared away the table and did the dishes, meaning John washed up and Sherlock kept well out of his way.

"You look absolutely knackered," John said softy, after everything had been put away. He regarded Sherlock with a mixture of affection and concern, the kind only John could convey.

"I'm fine," Sherlock muttered, although his eyelids seemed like lead indeed, and he did feel very tired.

John's expression did not waver as he stepped closer to Sherlock, but his movements were hesitant as he brought up one hand and put it on Sherlock's cheek. The detective leaned into the touch and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply; John's hand was warm and smelled of washing-up liquid and aniseed and John's own scent.

"Would you like to sleep in my bed tonight?" John asked, his voice low. "Together with me, I mean?"

Sherlock could feel his heartbeat again; for a moment, he thought that he really did not deserve John and all the love he was able to give. But apparently, John did not think so, because the look in his eyes was one of true affection and fondness and... appreciation, and now his thumb was stroking over Sherlock's skin ever so gently.

How could he have lived without that? He did not know. But it seemed that Davenport had not succeeded in destroying Sherlock's needs after all, and that was something to be glad about. He opened his eyes and looked at the man who had saved him from falling into an abyss too dark to see how deep it was, and gave a tiny nod.

Upstairs in John's room, Sherlock stood next to the bed a little awkwardly while the doctor quickly changed into an old shirt and pyjama bottoms; it did not seem right to get in on his own, and he had already discarded of his dressing gown. John threw his clothes onto a chair, then he held up the duvet and slipped under it, Sherlock following his example. The bed was still cold, but John opened his arms invitingly, and after a moment's hesitation, the detective scooted closer and felt himself wrapped into John's embrace once more. It was different from sitting on the sofa earlier, and certainly different from the first time it had happened, but definitely pleasant. Sherlock could feel John's heartbeat again, his steady breath in his hair, and felt at home.

John's arms were like a fortress, his scent all around the detective. It even made being unable to think bearable, and Sherlock could close his eyes. He did not need to be strong anymore, nor keep up appearances. He had been cold all day but now John's warmth was all around him, keeping him safe. He would not have expected it to feel so good, or so right for that matter. He felt like he belonged here, in John's arms, where nothing and no one could hurt him. He was also sure that John would never use this against him: he apparently did not think of Sherlock as being weak because of this.

"I love you," John whispered now, unable to contain himself any longer, "I love you so much." Sherlock just pressed himself tighter against him: "Please stay with me...," he murmured.

John did not know whether he meant now or forever, but he was okay with both. He was not going to leave Sherlock ever again if he could help it.

Gently, he reinforced his embrace, sheltering the other man with his body. Sherlock was so tired that he was trembling, and John hoped he was going to be able to sleep, sleep and rest and forget for a while. He tenderly stroked Sherlock's neck, playing with the soft curls; his lips caressed Sherlock's temple, seeking to calm him further.

Sherlock had nearly dozed off when he was startled awake once more: "John!"

"I'm here, love," John sought to appease him, talking against Sherlock's skin: "Go back to sleep." Sherlock made a small sound and burrowed closer into the doctor again; he exhaled, shuddering, then stilled. John rested his cheek against the detective's dark curls and listened to his quiet breathing, which soon evened out again.

It didn't take long for him to fall asleep.

John was the first to wake up on the following morning and found that Sherlock and he had rolled away from each other at one point. Sherlock was still fast asleep, lying on his back with his face tilted towards John. He seemed exhausted even in his sleep, but to John, he still looked lovely.

Very carefully, the doctor shifted his position until he could wind his arm around Sherlock, snuggling up with him with bated breath. Sherlock did not wake, though he pressed himself against the other man, nestling against John as though they had done this a hundred times before. John pressed a kiss against Sherlock's forehead, inhaling the other's scent and marvelling at the fact that he was allowed to do this, to hold Sherlock and be so close.

He was grateful to whatever deities had granted him this, and he would happily wake up like this every day for the rest of his life. Adrenaline was surging through him even though he was barely awake, just because he had Sherlock- Sherlock in his arms, when even yesterday he had feared that the man was never going to talk to him again. That fear seemed irrational now that he was lying here, feeling Sherlock's warmth and listening to his quiet breathing, but even if this could be counted as tremendous progress, John was aware that Sherlock probably was far from fine yet. It did not matter right now, though, he would deal with it when it happened. They would.

Gently, almost timidly, he reached up and stroked Sherlock's cheek with the back of his fingers, marvelling at the softness of the skin. He then moved on to the delicate shell of the ear and from there to the neck, proceeding towards the hairline. He was so lost in thought that he did not notice how Sherlock's breathing changed almost imperceptibly, and then his eyes slowly opened.

As their gazes met, John paused in his motion, unsure as to how Sherlock would react. Maybe he did not want this after all, maybe he was going to reconsider. Yet all of a sudden, he smiled. He was very obviously still sleepy, but he freed his hand from under the duvet and reached for John as well, curling his fingers into the other's hair, savouring the contact. "You feel good," he murmured.

"You too," John smiled as well. With his thumb, he gently stroked the soft skin underneath Sherlock's eye, his fingertips applying gentle pressure on his temple. The detective ever so gently leaned into the touch, craving the tenderness. This was new to him, but he already felt bereft at the prospect that it might stop again.

He slowly retraced the lines in John's face with his fingers, a gentle caress. His eyes were following the motion, and there was an almost sad smile on his face."I want to keep this," he murmured so softly it was like a whisper.

John regarded him fondly: "You will keep this. I can't be anywhere but with you, I thought you had understood that much. I even camped out in the hallway for four days."

Sherlock's face softened when John's words were sinking in. There was relief evident in the great detective's eyes as well as surprise, and something akin to joy. "John," he said in a very low voice. "Do you know what you're saying."

"I do," John said, smiling. "Make no mistake about that. So... I hope you do not have any objections about... this."

The smallest of smiles graced Sherlock's haggard face: "As a matter of fact, I don't," he said, nearly whispering. "I don't quite understand it, but... it feels just right."

"It does," John replied. "You know what?"

"What?"

"I'm glad I stumbled into your bed that night. And even though I wish the whole thing with... Davenport hadn't happened, there's at least one positive consequence."

Sherlock frowned, but he had to acknowledge the logic in this. He leaned towards John once more, seeking his touch, and the doctor gladly complied, wrapping him tightly in his arms, feeling that he had tensed up just at hearing the name.

"I've got you," John murmured into his hair. "You're all right. We are going to be all right."

Sherlock nodded; he had never had any reason to doubt John's words, after all.

One week later, a 43-year-old man was arrested in his home in Leeds after suspicious materials had been found on his computer hard drive. The man kept protesting his innocence; he had no idea what he had done.

Sherlock received a text message from his brother a little while later, with a link to a brief newspaper article about the case. He read the article, then deleted the text; one less, he thought. If he only could delete Davenport as easily.

"You all right, love?" John asked, who had just come into the kitchen where Sherlock was sitting in front of the microscope.

Sherlock nodded automatically, then stopped himself, because John would have seen through the lie anyway; he had an uncanny sixth sense when it came to these matters.

"I'm getting there," he muttered instead. It was probably going to be easier once Davenport had been tried. A thorough search through his house had unearthed enough material to have him convicted of multiple charges even without Mycroft having to interfere.

John did not say anything, he just leaned over Sherlock's shoulder for a moment: "Can I have a look?"

Sherlock was aware that he only used the microscope as an excuse to provide a distraction and subtle physical closeness, which miraculously always calmed Sherlock down. Therefore he played along, appreciating John's consideration; he knew that Sherlock did not like to be coddled. Tenderness and intimacy were one thing, coddling an entirely different one.

"Yeah, that's... interesting," John said and straightened up. "What is it?"

"Saliva. From the morgue."

"O-kay." John gave him a smile; he was hardly surprised anymore. "Tea?" he then asked.

"Yes." Sherlock turned towards the microscope again, but paused: "Thank you."

John understood that Sherlock did not mean the tea, but knew better than to say so.

"You're welcome," he replied, briefly squeezing Sherlock's shoulder, then went to boil some water.

Yes, he thought as he put the kettle on, they were all right.

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The End

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