Okay, here it is (big sigh) the final chapter. I have really enjoyed writing my first chaptered fic and loved the comments, so thank you. I may possibly be tempted to continue this stance in the future if wanted (see ending). I really poured over this chapter so please let me know what you all think. Thanks again, it was a pleasure.

Jess x

Chapter 8

Our walk home is a hurried one and eager glances hit me every few steps as if he's checking I'm still there. It seems we are unable to exist at present without touching the other and more than once he steals a breathless kiss whilst our journey is halted by traffic. As we turn the corner into Baker Street he hauls me back swiftly.

"Lestrade"- He says in frustration.

I stare at him in amusement, hanging a hand on the lapel of his coat.

"To be honest Sherlock, I don't think he's going to want to be part of this"- I say with a blissful smile.

"What? Shut up. No he's here, at the door".

I go to peer around the corner but he stops me; pining me up against the wall with gentle ease and I know now that there is no place I wouldn't go if it were him pushing me there.

"Don't, he'll see us."

We wait for a few minutes, close together out of sight and we have to admire Lestrade's persistency as he tries each of our phones in turn. To the horror on both our faces Mrs. Hudson then opens the door and invites him in. Sherlock lets out a groan as he leans back against the wall next to me, his head falling to my shoulder in frustration and I turn to inhale him. It pleases to me to see so obviously that the delay is killing us both.

"Come on, the sooner we get in there the sooner we can get him to go"-I say.

I leave the wall but before I know it, he has grabbed my wrists pulling me back into the shadows and kisses me as if it were possibly the last we'd ever share. I come to my senses in time to force my tongue into his mouth in reply and I he melts into me so that we are as close as we feel able on the street in which we live. It's quick, but no less intense and his hands then reach out past my shoulders, flat against the wall behind and I find my own under his coat and up his back. Just when I feel him press fully against my body; intent and all, he is off across the road with his coat and scarf billowing out behind him.

"Just in case"- he shouts back without turning and I am left to recover and follow in my own time.

We sit in an uncomfortable silence with Mrs. Hudson serving tea and I have to try exceedingly hard not to laugh at the look of thunder that has taken up residence on Sherlock's face. Lestrade is seemingly responding to a desperate text message I had forgotten I'd sent yesterday and has come to ask Sherlock to accompany him alone to a crime scene. The irony stings, but I don't forget our moment at the back of that club and I am thankful that he wants to entice Sherlock back to the land of the un-living.

"So what do you think, feel up to it?"

He looks pleased with himself and I force a smile. Bless him, he thinks he's helping and in all intense and purposes he is. There is a brief silence and I stare at Sherlock, with Lestrade glancing between us in confusion expecting the usual flurry of activity to find coats and summon Taxi's. I fidget in my chair.

"What else are you going to do, sit here and mope?"

The tension in the room peeks and we choose that moment to stand in unison and hurriedly offer alternatives; he says we're on our way out, I say we have things to do here. Then, as if watching all that crap TV has taught us nothing of cliché, we repeat the other's statement. Sherlock glares at me accusingly and I at him with helplessness and we both fall back into our chairs, defeated. For an apparently intelligent man Lestrade doesn't catch on quickly.

"Sherlock, get your coat"- I say when it becomes clear that Lestrade isn't going anywhere.

"I will not."

"Sherlock, please we need some form of normality here, get your coat. For me."- I add this last bit quietly and the sentiment isn't lost on him. He looks at Lestrade with furry and gets up grabbing his coat from next to me.

"An hour, no more."

He leans in a little too close, for a little too long and I have to hold my breath to stop me from doing what would undoubtedly give us away. Then they are gone and I'm left with only his scarf on my lap, tapping fingers on the arm of the chair already feeling impatient at the loss. There are hurried steps on the stairs and he leans over the back of my chair placing a hand down my shirt and kissing the side of my neck.

"Don't go anywhere"- he says, grabbing his scarf.

The next few hours are the longest of my life and although it's not the end of our world, I berate myself for not being selfish enough to throw our visitors out when we had the chance. I keep busy but it seems that all I am capable of is pacing and keeping look out over the street below, mindful that soon we can lock the door and the world can go ahead and end if it so wishes.

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-You have no idea what I am imagining doing to you right now. SH-

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-I'm sorry; I have no idea to what you are referring, I have a date tonight. JW-

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-Very amusing. Hailing a cab in a bit. SH-

By the time he does get in its late and I've dozed off in the chair. He's left me to sleep. It must be love.

"Stop watching me sleep, it's not a productive use of time"- I say with a smug voice, slowly coming to.

He doesn't reply but I can feel his thin smile at the recollection of our conversation at the hospital. He's contemplating his next move and I let him have the moment. The squeak of leather indicates that he's left the sofa and I keep my eyes shut as if it's a gesture I should concentrate on. He slowly makes his way across the floor and a second later has knelt and picked up my hand from the arm of the chair. He runs his fingers over my palm and holds the weight of it in his. It's like he's examining it for the first time and I have to shift the image of him doing the same to a cold body on the slab. I hear his breathing speed up and he places a kiss on my wrist where my pulse should be, shattering all thoughts of the previous.

I feel his body weight shift and he's standing, silently inviting me to do the same. I let him pull me up and start guiding me to his room. I'm almost undone as he slips in behind me, leaning into my neck as he passes a hand round my waist to open the door. Once inside, there is a flurry of hands and material and our kisses are that of a violent urgency. He has his hands down my back and into the band of my jeans and as I finish hastily unbuttoning his shirt, I see the large round bruises around his porcelain chest. I pause with concern, remembering the broken ribs from the CPR, surely he's in pain.

"This makes it worth the wounds"- he whispers reading my mind.

I pull him down onto the bed, flushed and breathless and he feels like no weight at all. We pause to rid ourselves of the final constraints of our clothes and I am suddenly able to remember parts of our first encounter that had deserted me in the trauma of the last few weeks. Enlightened senses and eager hands busy themselves as I pull him up over me and I manage to hesitate for a brief moment, mindful not to hurt those purple bruises. He growls with impatience and pulls my legs around his hips, gathering purchase on the headboard above me. He knows he doesn't need to ask permission, but he does anyway and as his rhythm stabilizes and my grip upon him intensifies, he watches my eyes in fascination. It's over for him quickly and he kisses me throughout, his hot breath like white stars against me. His pace slows in control and I encourage him until my world ends momentarily.

"Do you remember any of it?"- I say to him referring to his hospital stay, as we settle against each other on the pillows as if sharing a quiet secret, legs entwined.

"Only your voice"- he says curiously. "Interesting."

Four glorious months go by and lying in the dark one night high on the finality of a case; when it's been all I can do to steer him out of the hallway and into a proper bed, he says it.

"Isn't it strange that the human condition yearns for, with all it's being, that which makes it most vulnerable."

I know exactly of which he speaks, but he mistakes my expression for that of confusion.

"Love, John. Love"- He says casually, as if it is one of his 'isn't it obvious' scientific dialogues I'm always privy to. It isn't the declaration one would dream of hearing, but to me it is the last of Sherlock's walls crashing down silently around us. When he is the furious hurricane of Vivaldi's L'Estate Presto and his demons are in full force, I can imagine that I misinterpreted this statement entirely. But then he will always entice me round with promises of brakes between cases and turning off phones.

I have absolutely no idea how I got here; this place, this delicious place with him. No day goes by that he fails to surprise me and I believe he would say the same of me. The most amazing thing is that it doesn't seem to be leaving either of us any time soon. Not like my other encounters, because in comparison that's all they can be classed as now; mere encounters. It seems I was a done deal long ago and he tells me that I make him human. I in turn berate him for imagining that his character was in some way lacking. I don't think anyone would believe me if I chose to disclose his vulnerabilities or lack of self-esteem. I always said he was a good actor. Gone are the hidden photos from his only other friend the skull, now replaced by one in his wallet that I know he asked Harry for. They seem to share an understanding.

Sherlock as a lover is everything and nothing I could have imagined all at once. His approach taken to me is of course the same as that taken with his work; intense, frenzied, unpredictable and sporadic, on one occasion even landing us an ASBO for 'public indecency' from Lestrade. But that of course is another story.

The End