Hi, my darlings,

This is it. This is the end. I've been writing this series for a year now and I can't believe it ends tonight. I feel relieved, I feel sad...I don't know what I'm feeling right now. It's so tough to let this version of my Sherlock and John go. They are my first borns! This series is my first born. I depicted the boys here just the way I see them. And I hope I did justice to their characters.

For you, my lovely readers, I can't thank you enough for the huge amount of support, love, positivity you have showed to the boys, to this series and to me. This was my first venture into this fanfiction world and the experience is overwhelming. I have met many wonderful people, made friends, met my Kiddo, and found my bestie. You guys have made me feel special, feel appreciated with your kind words, your patience. You laughed with the boys, cried with the boys and suddenly I wasn't so lonely anymore. A 'thank you' will never do justice to what I feel about you all, but for the lack of any other gesture, I thank you from the core of my heart for giving this series and me a chance.

I will miss those who used to leave reviews on almost every chapter, thus making my day. Maybe I will meet you guys again in one of my other fics. (I intend to write loads of them :D)

Thank you for the reviews, follows, favourites. Hi to all of you who followed this story but whom I never met. Be happy, stay safe. Take care.

Farewell...for now.

This is Beta'd by MagdaTheMagpie, my bestie. Love you, girl, for always being there for me.

The remaining mistakes are mine.

This chapter may disappoint you but know that the adventure never ends.

enjoy the read!

"This is the end

Hold your breath and count to ten

Feel the earth move and then

Hear my heart burst again

For this is the end.

Let the sky fall

When it crumbles

We will stand tall

Face it all together..."

-"Skyfall" by Adele

"No, absolutely not."

"But Jawn!"

"Don't John me. We won't be taking that damned microscope with us to France and that's final. If you need one, which I'm sure you will considering I'm such a bore for you, your brother can provide you with one. But do not expect me to drag that monster all the way there."

"Take it instead of that trolley suitcase. Problem solved."

"We need clothes! I need clothes. Not everyone can lounge around all day wrapped in a sheet."

"I most certainly do not lounge."

"Uh, you are doing exactly that right now."

"I am merely contemplating the disadvantages of having an idiot for a boyfriend."

"Oh? Want to exchange? Perhaps you'll find someone clever in France, and to secure a man like that you'll need your fancy suits to show off and that means the trolley must go with- owwww! Sherlock! Stop falling like a rock on my lap every time you see me sitting down. You are not a cat and way too heavy."

"Mmmmm."

"You nutter, stop licking me, I haven't showered yet."

"Mmmmmm."

"What is it, genius? Need a cuddle?"

"Mmhmmm."

"Okay...God, your are- oh that tickles, sto- heyyy. Okay okay, we can cuddle for a bit- stop biting me- we ca-mmph...mmmmm..."

"You were saying?"

"You cheeky monkey! We are leaving in three hours."

"But we have packed everything already."

"I have packed everything, yes, but you still need to wear actual clothes."

"Why? What's wrong with this is robe?"

"I won't even bother to answer that. You are wearing a proper outfit for the journey and that's an order."

"Kinky but dull...ow! What is it with you and my nose? Always grabbing my nose, you molesting barbarian."

"I love your nose. It is the only thing in your body that doesn't scowl at me. Even your cock scowls at times! Anyway, it's small and cute and very un-Sherlock-y."

"Charming as always, aren't we, Doctor? Now, shut up and provide me with some data."

"..."

"More."

"..."

"More."

"..."

"More."

"No more. We're gonna be late. Mycroft will throw a fit."

"That's exactly the plan. And there's always time for one more, John."

"... Brat."

"Yes, your brat."

~0~0~0~

Mycroft Holmes phone chirped, interrupting the quietness of his spacious office.

A message from a blocked number.

He arched an eyebrow and picked it up.

What would be better, Mikey darling? Watching little brother dance through a camera feed, which will absolutely ruin his beautiful features? Or to have the front seat of a live performance? – M

Mycroft reread the text once again before setting the phone down on his table. He checked the time and called Anthea through the intercom; then, took out the phone that had only one number in its contact list. He had a phone call to make.

He would be lying if he said he didn't expect something like this to happen. Only it happened quicker than he anticipated. No need to worry, though. He was always prepared when it came to his brother.

Mycroft sat there, with steepled fingers. His calm never wavered. Not even once.

~0~0~0~

Sherlock didn't want to go, not in the least. But seeing John so excited about the exile (urgh!) he didn't want to disappoint him. Therefore, he smiled when he was required to, nodded in all the right intervals, even carried one of their bags from their bedroom to the living room! The things he did for John... Then John kissed him murmuring promises and the exile didn't look so bad anymore. Idiot.

Now, they were sitting in a cab, on the way to the airport with John acting like a kid with sugar high.

"A holiday, at last! God knows we needed one. Remember the things we planned in our letters if we ever visited France?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "John, for the umpteenth time it is an exile, not a holiday. And you have been doing an excellent job at reminding me about the plans every forty five minutes for two days now."

"That's because you keep deleting them, you git," John said without any bite.

"Do you want me to recite them from my memory?" Although his tone suggested that he had no intention of doing so even if John wished.

John didn't look like he had heard him at all. Instead, he whispered an "oh" and pulled out his phone from his pocket. Sherlock watched him from the corner of his eyes with a bored expression that turned into a questioning one as his boyfriend snuggled into him, one hand holding the phone up at an odd angle.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking a selfie for the blog." John twisted and turned trying to find a better angle.

"But you don't have a blog!"

"I will, soon, about us. Now, will you please sit still for a moment?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and frowned at the camera, and after the click he saw his grumpy face beside John's smiling one, their cheeks touching. John was unreasonably happy seeing the picture. Sherlock was happy seeing John.

After a few minutes, the cab reached the airport and they got out.

They were approaching the tarmac where their private flight was waiting, when his phone vibrated, signalling a call.

'Fatty'

Sherlock frowned at the screen. Why was his brother calling him when he knew Sherlock preferred to text?

"What?" he barked.

"Congratulations, brother dear, as your wish prevailed at last."

"If you want to be dramatic I suggest you to join the theatre, Mycroft. Stop wasting my time."

"The Naval treaty is gone from MI6 archive."

"You have my deep condolences."

"Also, a bomb went off at Leinster Gardens, killing none, surprisingly. I have reasons to believe these two accidents are connected."

"And the snipers."

"...Yes."

"Full access to MI6 and MI5 archives. Also, I won't be answerable to anyone."

"Access only to MI6 files related to the case and you will report to me."

"The whole MI6 and NSY archive."

"Four MI5 stand-by guards."

"Two."

"Two and a car."

"Baker Street."

"All right, I will be there within half an hour."

Sherlock ended the call. John was standing there beside him, waiting patiently. Sherlock whirled towards him, grabbed his shoulder and shook him, "A perfectly executed grand level theft and a bombing in the middle of the day. Christmas has come early, John! Oh, this is brilliant."

John looked befuddled, "What? But...the trip?"

"Trip? Oh, France can wait. England needs us now, John. Queen and country and all that drama. We have a criminal to catch."

It was a testament of how John Watson had changed him as, in the midst of his case induced excitement, Sherlock noticed how the news of the cancelled trip deflated John. A sense of guilt gripped him, but...

"John," he cupped his lover's face with both hands and kissed him softly, "I promise you to go wherever you wish to take me once all this is over. But for now, I need you with me, please."

With that, he stepped back, took John's hand in his and dragged him towards the exit.

The airport was abuzz as the news of the explosion had hit the media now. Sherlock noted the approx time of the explosion was just after the moment they reached the airport. Interesting.

One of Mycroft's kidnap cars was waiting for them outside and Sherlock very begrudgingly appreciated the gesture as he knew getting a cab and reaching home in the middle of this chaos would have taken them hours. He opened the door for John and ushered him, "The mystery awaits, John, come along. Keep up or I'll be lost without my blogger."

~0~0~0~

Sherlock almost ran over Mrs. Hudson when they reached 221B, roughly fifteen minutes later. He was a bundle of nervous energy, with twitching fingers and inaudible muttering, all the while tapping on his phone. He bounded up the stairs the moment Mrs. Hudson opened the door, leaving John to deal with their landlady's numerous questions. John looked up the stairs then at Mrs. Hudson and sighed.

"Oh, you boys came back! You left and then there was this- this explosion and I was so worried! They blocked some roads and...oh, I can't deal with this tension, I have a hip! But why did you come back?"

"A case came up."

"Oh, my poor boy," she patted John's cheek with sympathetic affection, "I'm sure you'll have another chance soon, dear."

"Yeah, sure," John smiled despite his dampened mood and prepared to haul the luggage up the stairs.

"Oh, John?" Mrs. Hudson called out from her door, "you've had a delivery earlier, just after you left. I have put it on your tea table."

"Oh, okay, thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I'm gonna.." he gestured upwards, already distracted about the delivery. Who on earth would send him anything? Harry? Murr? Unlikely.

Moments later John entered their flat, panting softly from all the exhaustion, and saw Sherlock standing in the middle of the living room with an enormous bouquet of blood red roses. There was a single flower, which John couldn't identify, sitting in the middle of the bouquet. His jaw dropped at the sight.

"Is- is that the delivery?" he asked somewhat dazedly because what the hell? Flowers?

When he didn't get an answer he lifted his eyes to Sherlock and was met with a piercing gaze.

"Who is Richard Brooke, John?"

John frowned, "Who?" Richard Brooke? Why does that name sounds so familiar? Richard...Rich...

It took him a few seconds to gather up his wits and delve into his memories to find that name. But when the sense of recognition dawned on him, his eyes widened comically.

"Richard Brooke...yes, of course," he murmured to himself, but Sherlock caught it and asked tersely, "Of course?"

John shook his head. He never thought he would come across that name again in his life. To be honest, he never even gave a thought about it, about him.

"Remember the kid that used to write to me while I was in Afghanistan? That rehab kid I told you about? That's Richard Brooke, but what has that got to do with-?" he waved his hand at the bouquet.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in concentration for a moment then looked at John incredulously, "You're still exchanging letters with him?"

"What?" John frowned then blinked, "No, of course not! I haven't heard from him since I left, and wouldn't I have told you if I did?" John bristled but he had more pressing matters at hand, "Is that- did those come from him?"

"Yes," came a gritted out reply, "along with a note."

"Note? What does it say? And how the hell does he know where I live?" John asked with a sense of growing trepidation. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

"You tell me," and Sherlock handed him a small folded card.

The paper was expensive and hallmarked. John opened it.

" "We know what we are, but not what we maybe..."

I missed you, did you miss me?

It's been so long, John...

-Richard Brooke

John stood shell shocked.

"Do you know what these flowers signify, John?" Sherlock's voice jolted him, thus pulling him out of his haze.

"I- uh, I know about the red rose. Passion, desire, love and, well, that's all. But I don't know about that one," he tilted his chin to indicate that single unknown flower, "I don't even know its name."

"Fraxinella. The flower of Fire."

Their gaze met and stayed for a long moment. Then, Sherlock turned, threw the bouquet into the unlit fireplace and went to stand by the window. John was too bewildered to protest. And he probably wouldn't have told Sherlock anything at this moment, even if he had the right frame of mind.

He skimmed through the card once again, trying to come up with something, anything, that might explain this bizarre incident.

"Believe me, Sherlock, I don't know how-"

"I believe you, John," Sherlock interjected without turning, "I trust you. No matter however else I act, know that I always believe you."

John wanted to hug him, hold him and never let go. For understanding. For believing. Because he didn't think he could have handled another jealous tantrum now. The urge to touch Sherlock was so fierce that he actually took several steps and stood by his lover. But he didn't touch him, yet.

"Then...how, why?"

"Why, you ask, John?" Those steepled fingers stroked that pale chin, eyes narrowed, unfocused, "Because, someone is obsessed enough to trace, track and finally find out a non-descriptive Army doctor whose history after being discharged is now a classified file at MI6. Someone with immense knowledge and intelligence..." Sherlock turned his head to his right to meet John's eyes, "Someone like me."

Silence stretched out as they held their gaze. Both faces depicting an array of emotions. Then John inhaled loudly, breaking the spell.

"But Richard never sounded like you. What I've had gathered from his letters, he was just like any other seventeen year old. Yes, he was very bright, that much I can say, but it was nowhere near your intelligence, Sherlock. And nobody can be that clever but you. Nobody can be like you. And-" John hesitated for a moment, "and there was no indication that he was obsessed or even emotionally involved with me."

Sherlock hummed non-committally, mind still racing on.

"For how long did he write to you?"

"A few months, uh, maybe three or four before the Christmas I met you."

"Hmm, quite long, then."

"Yes, you can say that."

"How frequent?"

"It was a letter a month for a couple of months, then the flow increased." John frowned, trying to remember, "I can't be sure but maybe it was two letters a month. Sometimes more. My mates made my life hell for receiving so many letters." John chuckled at the memory despite himself.

Sherlock gave him a sideway glance, "You said he was in a rehab. Addict? And how did the correspondence started?"

"I never asked him about the cause of his stay and he never volunteered to tell me. It was some kind of communication programme where the patients were asked to write to the deployed soldiers. Actually, I don't know much about him, I was never curious, you know. But he seemed pretty interested in my life."

"How interested?" Sherlock turned fully towards him, "What kind of things did he want to know?" His voice became distant, as if talking to himself, "He was gathering information, clearly. Assessing and using them." Then his eyes zeroed in on John once again, "What did you two talk about?"

John was very, very puzzled at this point. He knew Sherlock was connecting dots to create a picture. But he couldn't even see the dots, let alone the picture, and that made him confused and frustrated. "I- we, uh, we talked about our current lives, daily drudgery, boring stuff. He often asked me about my family, my home, how I grew up, my likes, dislikes. Or even my early Army days. We even talked about you a couple of times."

"Me? You talked about me with a stranger?"

"Er...you see, I was pretty depressed and very much affected after we met; it was a long wait before your first letter arrived. I wanted- needed- someone to talk about things. Nothing explicitly, mind, but the things I was feeling. Talking about those things to my mates was out of question for obvious reasons, and at that time, a faceless stranger seemed like the best option available. It was easy to open my heart when I didn't know the person."

The crease between Sherlock's eyebrows deepened, heralding a vicious scowl. "You talked about us with him? You opened your heart to him?" He spat.

"No! No no no, it wasn't like that. I just told him how brilliant you were and how you fascinated me. And that...that I missed you. Please realize that at that point I didn't even know if I would hear from you again or not."

"But you gave him enough information to lead things where they are now."

John looked sheepish. He didn't do anything wrong but well, he shouldn't have babbled that much to a stranger, as Sherlock pointed out. Kid or not.

"Do you still have the letters?"

"No, I only have yours. I didn't find them after I recovered."

"Hm."

They stood there awkwardly, avoiding each other's eyes. At last, Sherlock broke the silence.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Were you-were you close to him, too? Not emotionally of course, that much I can deduce... but was he, too, your best friend?"

John looked at Sherlock's face, turned away from him. God, he was so beautiful.

"I had one best friend. I still do. And that's you, Sherlock Holmes. Never doubt that. Yes, I liked talking to this kid. He was very vibrant, energetic. But I was never attached, emotionally or otherwise. I never allowed myself to get attached to anyone outside the Army."

"But you did with me."

"Since when do you follow the rules? I was bound to break them for you. I was in love, after all."

Sherlock, who was now gazing at him intently, leaned forward a bit more, "Even then?"

"Always." And John closed the remaining gap to kiss this beautiful man. His best friend, his lover. His Sherlock. His home.

The kiss was soft, languid, full of promises and nostalgia.

Ending the kiss, they stood there with John wrapping his arms around Sherlock form behind, chin resting against that bony shoulder. Sherlock's large hands covering his.

"I told you, John, didn't I, that there will be always someone, ready to take you away from me?"

"Would you let them? Without a fight?"

"Of course not!" The scorn was evident in his voice, "But what if they outsmart me? What if I fail you, John?"

"Nobody can outsmart you, Sherlock. You are the cleverest person I have ever seen."

"Do not underestimate someone who has found you out, motivated by some mere letters. And never think lightly of an obsessed person."

"I won't, but he must have had some really resourceful people at his disposal. I mean, he's just a teenager, after all."

Sherlock sniffed, "I solved my first murder case at eight."

John laughed, the sound muffled by Sherlock's neck where he pressed his lips, "Once again, he is not you."

They were silent once again.

"John?" Sherlock's voice sounded quiet, grim, "Can you see the web forming around us?"

John, already alarmed by that voice, asked with equal seriousness, "Web?"

"Yes, a web. A rapidly growing web. The snipers, the theft at MI6, the bombing today and the return of Richard Brooke- These all are the connecting points in the web."

"What? But- that sounds quite farfetched, doesn't it?"

"No, it doesn't. Don't you see, John, it was you, always you."

"Me?" John tried to untangle his limbs from his boyfriend to look at his face properly; he was thoroughly baffled. But Sherlock didn't let him. He only tightened his grip more. John stopped trying and rewrapped his arms once again. "What about me?"

"At the Milverton's, those snipers' were for you; the moment Milverton ordered his men to kill you the shooting started. Hacking the CCTVs was to track you. The bombing this morning happened just when you were about to leave the country. The bouquet was delivered minutes after we left. The sender knew that we would be coming back shortly. It was all planned out, John. All along. My arrogance blinded me earlier, prevented me from seeing it." Sherlock gritted out, "This Richard Brooke is a central point in this web."

"Or he can be another prey. Just stuck inside the net somehow," suggested John.

The taller man turned his head to the side a bit and said over his shoulder, "Or maybe he is the spider."

John was still, standing behind him. The wheels were turning in his head. Still trying to negate the implications, to make sense out of this strange situation. Why would anyone go to such great length for him? The only person he could think of doing something like that for him was in his arms right now. Then who? And...

"But what about the theft? What was that for? I'm sure as hell it wasn't connected in any way with me."

"That was one of the dots I can't seem to connect with the rest of them. I'm missing something. Over looking something. I need more data. More clarity. I need to see, John, I need to solve this. I can't lose you. I can't. You- this, this crippling need for you, this co-dependency... I hate it, I hate it so much. Yet, I crave it more than anything. More than life itself. I can see why he wants to take you away. But I won't let him, John. I can't, I can't. I love you and I won't let him and there will be- there will-"

"Shhh, shh, shh," John rested one of his hands against Sherlock's chest and pushed him backwards, pressing their bodies more tightly. He couldn't let Sherlock be miserable now, not ever. If Sherlock's assumption was correct then they needed to keep their calm now more than anything. He needed to anchor Sherlock. "I love you, I love you more than you can ever imagine. And I have no doubt that you won't let him take me away from you. I won't let him. Sherlock, listen to me," he kissed Sherlock's ear," there is no need to jump into any conclusion right now. I am not saying that you are wrong but there are other variables that should be taken into consideration. And to do that we need to be at our best condition, all right? We can't afford to lose our focus now. I am here with you, I'll always be here with you. I won't go anywhere. We love each other, Sherlock. I won't survive a day without you, love."

"I'm scared, John." Sherlock whispered.

If that simple yet brutally honest statement had startled John, he didn't let it show. Instead, he kissed Sherlock's ear once again and asked casually, "For what exactly?"

"That I will lose you. That I won't be able to save you."

John leaned back and craned his head to make eye contact; Sherlock twisted a bit and did the same.

"I don't need saving, Sherlock. What I need is for you to trust me when I say you will never lose me."

"You can't promise that."

"I can."

"No."

"Do you believe in forever, love?" John asked, his tone serious.

"No, I do not."

"Then why are you scared?"

"Because, I want to! For us." Sherlock sounded so frustrated. It broke John's heart, but this wasn't a time to be emotional. He touched his lover's chin with his lips.

"Can you promise me forever, Sherlock?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, then, logical as ever that he was, replied honestly, "No, I can't, unfortunately."

A light brush of lips, "Then, can you promise to try hard to achieve that forever?"

Sherlock's eyes instantly hardened with determination and he said, "Yes, I can, and I promise so."

"Good. Then I promise to do the same. I promise to try to be with you forever, irrespective of the circumstances. Even when you put eyes balls in our teacups. There will always be the two of us, Sherlock. Always." And he kissed the man who stole his heart all those many months ago and never returned it. Brat.

Sherlock looked at him with a raw, open face, "Forever?"

"Always." John sealed the deal with another kiss that lasted quite a few minutes.

They stood there, pressed against each other. Wrapped in each other. Madly in love with each other. They were not naive. They knew a storm was brewing; many hurdles were yet to come. But they also knew as long as they were together they could face anything, overcome anything. They were a matched set, after all.

"Shall we let the game, begin, John?"

"Oh, God, yes! I can't wait."

"Could be dangerous."

"Never expected anything less."

"The two of us."

"Against the rest of the world."

"And Mycroft."

"And Mycroft."

They moved from the window and took their seats in the living room as they saw a black car stop in front of 221B Baker Street.

It was time for a new adventure.

~0~0~0~

John and Sherlock taking a Selfie was not my idea. It was suggested by a reader on A03. If you liked the scene, the credit goes to the person.

I am very sorry for the cliffy ending. But this series was about the journey of Sherlock and John trying to be together. Hence, it must stop here, for now.