A/N: Here it is, you fantastic readers you! I'm so incredibly sorry it took so long, but I did it!

Before though, I just wanted to take a moment to thank all of you reading, who have added this short but surprisingly popular story to your alerts and even favorites, and to those of you who have taken it out of your busy lives to review my humble writing! Special thanks goes out to TheReturned because she is just freaking brilliant and puts up with my monthly silences like a queen.

Seriously guys, this story has been a sort of experiment, bringing my own personal style of writing – all this free-form run-on stuff that kind of sounds poetic maybe? – into my fic writing and the popularity and response is breathtaking; you all are fantastic and deserve cookies and hugs and brownies or other wonderful things :)

If you're interested in reading more work in this writing style, please follow me as I will be starting a new drabble series based on the new Tumblr thing, 6 word johnlock. Every chapter title is 6 words, you're free to message me ideas, and it'll be free-form/stream-of-consciousness as well.

Now, on with the show. The final chapter! As always, enjoy!

vii.

After that first kiss I believe I frightened you by not speaking, not responding for almost a full minute; I was trying to catalogue and compare this truly real kiss with the others we – you and I, but not really you and I, because it was fake-you and I; need to differentiate now, there is something to differentiate between – had shared in the past; you frame my face in your hands and rubbed half-moons onto my cheekbones with your thumbs, looked and saw and observed with those oceanic eyes, the mighty Atlantic in a single stare; you're sweeping me away on a boat that's bound to sink but I'm not afraid to drown in you I'm not afraid to drown with you.

Your lips move and I can make out the tones of concern and understanding reverberating off your baby-pink lips and eventually they reach my ears and my eyes focus finally on you and you see, you know and I can lean in and gently you run your fingers into my hair so very lightly and I shiver, it runs through my spine like an electric pulse.

You're sparking something inside me that I can't name, but it feels like it's hurting and healing me all at once.

One hand grips my neck as the other plays in my dark curls, your mouth is soft and gentle and sweet then I feel your tongue on my bottom lip and like a match on a firecracker I hear a groan and I think it's mine; your tongue invades my mouth, running into my own and it should be like a train wreck or a head-on collision but no, it's like a slide of fingers keys, a bow on strings; I'm singing with it as the hand in my hair grips just that bit tighter to send thrilling sensations down my spine, I want to moan, I do moan and I want to arch or fall forward or simply dive into you, John – I want to mold our cells into one greater being but you hold me back quickly as if you were about to be completely lost but that's probably just me.

You look at me for a long while and I content myself in just feeling your fingerprints on the skin under my ear, feel your chest as it expands and compresses with your lungs, your breathing is almost as labored as my own and I want us to share this air like a private secret, it's hot and languid and it's ours.

"Are you sure?" you ask, of course you'd ask, upstanding citizen John Watson, Vitruvian man.

Instead of honoring such an idiotic question with an answer I run my fingers into your sable hair and pull you forward again, my tongue searching for yours and this time I can feel the vibrations of your moan and it feels like I've solved a triple murder in a locked room, I feel the fantastically idiotic need to hear it again and again till it replays in my head, you grip my shoulders and pull me forward, before pushing me back; you follow with your hips and suddenly there's a wall behind me, there's a you in front of me and I can feel your heat like a man frozen in time and I'm needy with it, you're pushing your body against mine and I'm helpless in it.

I can feel the outline of your body through your jumper, shirt, jeans, pants, your cock is hard and prominent and mine is so much worse, so much more evident in these thin posh trousers; as you arch up to catch the moan off the tip of my tongue your body rubs into mine and my knees nearly go, you've moved onto my neck and I can feel you staining me with reds and purples, marking me like a prized possession, like something you want to keep; I run my hands through your hair and try to focus on one sensation: the slip of your fingertips on my chest as you unbutton my shirt, the feeling of your pelvis on my cock as I try to pull our bodies closer together, the scratch and glide of chapped lips and a tongue on my collarbone.

It's too much and it's everything and it's all you; everything is you and I am basking in it like a shark in the sun.

The last while button slips from my shirt and it falls off my shoulders like a veil, the first piece of my armor to be broken through by you, John, and then you're on your knees in front of me, mouthing at my stomach like you've found the fountain of youth in the salty sweat in the dip of my belly-button; bees buzz through to my groin and I can't stifle the moan you draw out from me as your tongue works magic over my muscles. Your hand comes to a rest at my upper thigh when you mouth at the line where the band of my pants reach my skin, you worry at it with your teeth and I can see chrysanthemums and azaleas and forget-me-nots blooming behind my tightly closed lids, I'm trying to control myself for you then- oh

You run your nose over my trousers, tracing the bulge there before I feel you kiss your way over the cloth, I swear and writhe and you chuckle like a beautiful madman, you're unbuttoning my trousers and my shaking fingers help your pull them down faster. My cock falls free, relief is moot as you run your tongue over my hip-bone and tease the skin there; your fingers are brushing over my thighs and I want, what do I want, I'm not sure anymore.

I want to open you up and crawl inside like a raccoon in a burrow; I want you to mold our beings together into two atoms hidden inside a single molecule; I want you to make something beautiful out of my bones then paint me golden like the sun in your hair.

You lick the slit of my cock and my mind is flooded, thoughts crack like glass on cement and my fingers run through your hair and I worship you with moans as you suck the head between your lips, tongue on glands and eyes on mine. Yours are dilated pools of blackness and I've never seen anything more beautiful than you John Watson on your knees, my cock in your mouth and your eyes blown open like black-holes.

You move up me and together our fingers, like little spider legs but so very shaky, unbutton your jeans and you pull them down with your pants and then your mouth is on mine again, stealing the breath out of me. Your tongue touches mine and our moans collide against one another like the vibrato of a cello string, our gasps are staccato accents in the air, our fingers are conducting our hearts and we're composing something so new, something I want to play over and over and perfect; Tchaikovsky would be jealous of our symphony.

You pin my hands above my head with yours then rock our hips together, mouthing at the small path of skin below my ear; I whine and you move till our cock seem to form one line and rub against the other obscenely, it's magnetic and static and so very electric, I can feel it lighting fireworks in my brain and it feels like shedding skin, like drowning, like dying as you gasp my name against my lips, as you wrap our fingers together and hold onto me so tight, like I might fall again, like I might leave.

I repeat your name like I'm worshipping you; your body is a shrine and I'll give myself over willingly if you'd only keep me here, pinned against a wall between loneliness and your warmth.

A hand – I'm still not sure if it's yours or mine – grips both our cocks and pump franticly, I feel you shudder and gasp and I swear I feel your lips on my neck say 'I love you' but I can't be sure anymore, I can't be sure whether it's just myself, over and over in any language I can think of.

I come with the taste of your name – chocolate truffles and spun sugar – on my tongue, pushed through my lungs like smoke, my hand in your hair gripping like I'm falling off a ledge, one hand gripped in yours with blunt nails digging five prefect crescent-moons into your bones; you follow a moment later a prayer and a swear and my name all rolling off your tongue and it's the most beautiful sentence I have ever heard and I want to kiss the sweat off your forehead, I want to taste the mix of us on our stomachs, I want to grow old here with my legs around your waist and teeth marks on my neck and your spent cock resting on my leg but you grab my hand and lead me to the kitchen, proceed to clean us up and softly kiss every purpling bloom on my body like your apologizing for putting them there.

You, perfect you, John, lead us to my bed where you lie down and pull me on top of you like a blanket, and you take deep gulps of air from my mass of curls and I wonder what you smell there as I trace pictures into your chest. You whisper love into my hair and I write it on your abdomen and we sleep like that until the morning brings the sun to wake us.

viii. - epilogue

This is more real than any fantasy and more alive than the you in my mind. This is still rows about body parts in the fridge, this is still running head-on into danger, this is still me being obtuse and you being angry, this is still us, but it is us multiplied by the way your fingers fit between mine, the way the pulse-point on your neck tastes like black-eyed Susan's, the way you say my name when you want me; this is us plus the square root of improbable, multiplied by overdue.

This is something I can hold onto, that won't end, that won't hurt me from the inside out and leave me with metaphysical internal bleeding like it used to, this is something perfect, something bright and brilliant and illuminating.

This is you and I, John Watson, against the world as much as against ourselves, hearts beating and alive and so defectively in love sometimes I think I'm dreaming again.

But it's real, and when you look at me like I'm brilliant and I look at you like you're my heart it's everything. It's as it should be.