A/N: And here it is my darlings, the conclusion to our lovely story. I hope it lives up to the expectations.

Thank you to the wonderful Old Ping Hai, who has been super patient in me not finishing up Shift, so that I can begin working on her favorite AU, ballet!lock and rugby!John.

Sherlock started making breakfast while John showered, it was better than pacing the floor. He decided to make crepes as they would be both light and filling.

He was adding the sauce over the top of the finished ones, when John came stumbling out in his clean pajamas.

"That smells divine, Sherlock," he said, sitting down at the table. "I didn't know you could cook."

Sherlock shrugged. "It's simple chemistry, John. Once you understand that, it becomes very easy. That Alton fellow is quite clever."

John blinked. "You learned how to cook watching reruns of 'Good Eats'?"

Sherlock shrugged again.

John took a bite and moaned. "Very good, Sherlock! Does this mean we'll be eating less takeaway?"

Sherlock smiled. "Perhaps; hard to cook while my mind is elsewhere, like on a case, though."

John shook his head. "You could have taken that case, you know. Greg's right. I would have been fine for a couple of hours."

Sherlock shook his head. "It took Mycroft two days to figure it out. Though, he may have been prolonging his time with Greg."

"Wait, you mean...?"

Sherlock chuckled. "My best matchmaking, yet."

"Cheers!" John said, raising his fork to Sherlock. "Won't that mean less cases for you, though?" John added, with a frown.

"No. It means that my status as a paid consultant occurs faster and I won't just be working with Greg. It will mean that any DI or Sergeant can contact me if they think they need me."

John blinked. "So, what; did you borrow money from Mycroft until the paid consultant thing comes through?"

Sherlock shook his head. "You may want to finish that before I tell you. I don't want you to choke."

John looked down at his crepes and sighed. He was almost done, so he finished them up as quickly as he could. When he was finished, he pushed the plate away and clasped his hands in front on him on the table.

"You weren't far off the mark that Mycroft was involved. But not the way you thought." Sherlock cleared his throat. "Did you ever wonder why Mike needed to introduce us in the first place? Despite the fact that my clothes and everything else about me screamed monied?"

John opened his mouth, raised his eyebrows, and then furrowed them. "It never occurred to me."

"I have accounts in several Savile Row establishments that pull directly from my trust fund. A trust fund that until three days ago, I didn't have access to."

"Why not?"

"It's time for a little history lesson in the life of one William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I entered uni at a young age. Younger than what is average, in any case. The trust fund was set up so that I could only receive it if I had completed a degree. They didn't care what. Art history, English lit., or even apiology for all they cared. As long as it was something.

"Being that young and smarter than the vast majority of the students and even the faculty, wasn't easy. Despite what Sebastian said, I did have friends. Well, one. His name was Victor Trevor. His dog bit me."

John chuckled. "I'm sure there are less painful ways to befriend someone."

Sherlock smiled wanly. "We can't all have handy old friends willing to introduce us to wild eccentrics."

John grinned, "I suppose not."

"Well, it only lasted until that summer. I went out to his father's place. His father heard about what I do with the deductions. After much goading on both their parts, I caved in and deduced Mr Trevor."

John winced. "I take it went over like a lead balloon?"

Sherlock buried his hands on his lap. "I found that he had made his money illegally in Australia."

"Whoops!"

"Indeed. After that Mr Trevor's health declined and the past came back to bite him in the arse. Victor believed that if I had left it alone, his father would still be alive today. He ran off to India, last I heard. But he never spoke to me again."

John cringed. "Shit, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

Sherlock shook his head. "It put me in a bad place. So in my attempt to appear normal, I started doing drugs. To slow my brain to match those around me."

"Did you end up getting your degree?"

Sherlock scoffed. "But barely. At that point my parents had become aware of the habit, and they wrote a new clause into the trust fund. I would have to show up in person to my brother and formally request access to the trust."

"Effectively making sure you wouldn't ask until the relationship between you two had improved. How big of a fit did you pitch when you found out?" John asked with a knowing smile.

"I believe they had to have someone come in and repair the damage afterwards."

John chuckled, "Sounds about right. So that's what you did then, you asked Mycroft for the trust fund?"

Sherlock nodded. "We needed the money and what's a little hit to my pride when it will make our lives that much easier? I've caught us up on all the bills and set up to have them paid automatically. Same goes for Mrs Hudson. The rent will deposit on the first of every month in her bank account."

"Well, then. Good job, Sherlock," John said, beaming up at his friend.

Sherlock ducked his head, but he couldn't hide the pleased smile that spread across his face. "We should be getting cards for both of us in the mail in the next couple of days," he concluded.

John nodded, his face contorting as he tried not to cry. "Thank you." He stood up and buried his head into Sherlock's neck, throwing his arms around his friend.

"We won't want for anything for a really long time. And if we keep to the modest living we're used to, it will last us our whole lives," Sherlock murmured into John's shoulder.

John straightened up, "Just how much is in there?"

"When I was twenty, it had £100,000 in it," Sherlock hedged.

"Which was nearly twenty years ago. So at least three times that?"

"Something like that," Sherlock said with a smile.

Greg decided to take John out for drinks to make up for being a bastard when he was sick. He knew Sherlock wasn't going to leave John's side, but had gotten so desperate that he hadn't cared that John was so ill that he had barely moved from the sofa the whole time.

And then Sherlock gave him two alternatives. Send Sherlock everything they had and hope to hell the detective could solve it from his armchair while taking care of John, or go to the other Holmes brother and ask him to help. He had thought briefly about just sending everything to Sherlock, but when he turned around to close the door behind him, he saw Sherlock tenderly holding John's head up while he administered the medication.

Greg had gone straight from Baker Street to the Diogenes. After he had explained why Sherlock wouldn't- couldn't help him, Mycroft was on his feet and pulling on his coat, ordering Greg to tell him everything on the way over.

As much of a speed reader Mycroft was, he still had five cases to go through. Well, six by the time they caught the bastard. That had infuriated the elder Holmes so badly that upon catching the murderer, Mycroft had actually hit him. Full on fist to the face, no less. Greg had been impressed. Especially when the suspect had cried police brutality.

Mycroft had leaned forward and said into the man's ear, "I'm not the police, and if I didn't believe in Gregory Lestrade and his team, I would throw you someplace that no one would ever find you again."

The man blanched and meekly let Sally take him away. Greg should have kissed him right then and there. At least he had gotten a date out of the ordeal.

He had actually offered to take Sherlock out first. Considering that it was the lanky detective that had put Mycroft in his path, but Sherlock had turned him down. He didn't do well in places like that. He had suffered through for John's stag do, but no. It was not something he enjoyed.

Greg had relented and told him that he would find some juicy unsolved murders for him instead. That pleased Sherlock. Just then John had come down the stairs and Greg had turned around and invited John out for drinks.

John lit up and readily agreed. Which is how they had gotten to this. Freezing their arses off at the closest ATM, as John tried his new card to get cash out.

"It's a good thing we asked, before we started ordering drinks," Greg groused. "Who knew that the local had stopped taking cards."

"Seriously," John agreed. "I mean, I was really looking forward to flashing that card around." He put it in the machine and pulled it out again.

Greg pulled it out John's hand, "Let me see that!" His eyes bulged as he looked at the black card. "Christ! Just how much is on this thing?"

John shrugged. "Sherlock said something in the six digit range."

Greg let out a low whistle.

John gasped. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"What? Did the bastard over-estimate the amount?"

John shook his head and pointed at the screen. Greg leaned over and his jaw dropped.

"That's seven digits, John," Greg said, overstating the obvious.

"Christ, live modestly, my arse!" John cursed.

The Detective Inspector raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Sherlock told me that if we lived modestly like we've been doing, then this money would last us our entire lives."

Greg chuckled. "In London, actually having to buy a place, instead of stealing from that landlady of yours, he'd be right. He probably didn't want you to freak out over how much was in there."

"Consider me freaked out. Christ! But then when you're a Holmes, this must seem so small."

"John, it's not that and you know it. It's more that they are brilliant. Think about it, Mycroft must have invested the money for Sherlock and got it to that level. And if that's what happened, I bet it was a shock to Sherlock, too."

John sighed. "Right. You're right." He squared his shoulders and pulled out forty quid. "Let's go have a good time and I'll talk to Sherlock about it when I get home."

Later, when they were on their third round, John brought the subject up again.

"I'm going to have to keep working at the surgery, otherwise people will say I'm a kept man," John grumbled into his pint.

Greg rolled his eyes. "No one need know. As long you two don't suddenly start spending money like there is no tomorrow, people aren't going to notice or care."

"They'll notice if I quit my job," John snapped back.

Greg swirled his beer a bit before taking a drink. "Why? You've gone jobless before living with Sherlock and no one has said that."

John's head shot up. "Oh. Right."

"You're looking at this the wrong way. He did this because he saw that you were working yourself to bone to make sure the two of you were okay, and so he wanted to return the favor. For Christ's sake, let him!"

"I know, it's just that he's done so much for me, I'll never be able to repay him."

Greg snorted.

"What?"

"You could just date him," Greg said innocently around his pint to hide his smile.

John choked on the swallow of beer that he had been drinking, his eyes wide.

"That's-uh...he wouldn't- would he?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake! Go snog the hell out of him before the both of you perish from pining," Greg growled.

John threw down £20 and dashed for the door. Greg looked at the jacket he'd left behind and followed at a slower pace. He had barely gotten to the door when John burst through it again. He took the jacket from Greg with a murmured apology and then was back out into the night.

Greg shook his head. He pulled out his mobile and dialed.

"Hey, Mycroft," he said when the other person had picked up.

"Detective Inspector," Mycroft greeted.

"I told you you could call me Greg," Greg replied.

"Gregory, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I was out at the pub but the other person bailed on me and I was wondering if you would like to join me for drinks instead?"

"Hmm..." Mycroft said. "I'll do you one better, why don't I send a car around and you can help me finish off this bottle of Scotch?"

Greg licked his lips. That was a much better idea. "Done."

"May I ask who would be foolish enough to leave you high and dry?" Mycroft purred into his ear.

"Let's just say you should stay away from Baker Street for a few days," Greg said, chuckling.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, unless you want to get an eyeful."

Mycroft's smirk could be felt over the line. "No, thank you."

"Yeah, I thought not," Greg said, his grin mischievous. "Although, I think I have a couple ideas of what you could with that time instead."

"I'd be more than happy to hear them once you've stepped into the car."

Greg looked up just as a black sedan pulled to the curb. Greg chuckled. "You are a sneaky bastard, aren't you?"

"Where do you think Sherlock learned it from?"

Greg outright laughed as he slipped into the back seat of the car that would take him to Mycroft.

Sherlock wrung his hands as he paced back and forth. He should have gone with them. What if John found out how much was really in the account? Would he be angry, upset, thrilled? With John it was really hard to tell. John always surprised him.

Like him coming home early, apparently. It wasn't so early that he and Greg never made it out for drinks, but far too early to have been the night out that they planned.

John threw open the door and stared at a startled Sherlock like he was the most wonderful thing in the world.

Sherlock could barely draw in breath before John was crossing the floor to stand next to him.

"You're in love with me?" John asked, breathless.

Sherlock's eyes grew wide and he nodded.

John cupped his cheek and then reached around to grab the back of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock gasped and clutched John's jacket in his fists. John pulled Sherlock down to his level, panting close to the detective's mouth. Sherlock's heart rate skyrocketed as a swooping feeling entered his stomach. Then their lips were touching and suddenly Sherlock was flying.

Sherlock pushed the jacket off John's shoulders and after a brief struggle of limbs, it was on the floor. The whole time, their mouths kept seeking the other's, as if they couldn't bare to be apart for long.

Sherlock's robe followed John's jacket to the floor as hands sought out skin. Shirts were rucked up and removed. Fingers trailed on the bands of their trousers, seeking what lay beneath.

They broke off the kiss for one startling moment. "I love you, too, you mad git," John said fondly.

"John," Sherlock breathed out like a sigh. They stumbled through the kitchen and into Sherlock's room, the remainder of their clothes leaving a trail behind them.

"You gorgeous, gorgeous thing, I love you so much," John gasped as Sherlock proceeded to take him apart.

Sherlock's long fingers sought thighs, and skidded across abs. His lips pressed against ribs, and the neck. All John could do is hold on to Sherlock's shoulders for support.

Finally the friction he so desperately wished for was happening. Kisses turned into purple bruises, nails leaving lines of red, fingers grasping as they frotted against each other. John couldn't hold back anymore and screamed his release. Sherlock panted heavily as he chased his own high. John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's and together they brought him to his climax.

Sherlock rolled off John and flopped on to the bed next to him. John settled on his side, his hand propping up his head as he looked down at the detective. Using his spare hand, he began tracing patterns on Sherlock's chest with his finger.

"That was amazing," John said.

Sherlock cocked a eyebrow. "Do you know you do that out loud?"

John fell over laughing and Sherlock followed, reclining next to John, almost draped over his lover.

"Do you want me to stop?" John asked, staring up at his lover.

"No. It's...fine," Sherlock murmured before dipping down to kiss him.

"You are completely mad, Sherlock Holmes," John said, pulling Sherlock down on top of him, "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

Sherlock cuddled into John's chest. "Good."