A/N: Final chapter! Thanks for your patience recently. Life got really busy and then I caught the flu. I did write some of this when I was still running a fever, so forgive any initial inaccuracies ;) And thanks in general to all those who have been following the story. It was really meant to be a two- to three-part scene and grew bigger than that. I blame it on the Moriarty muse — he wouldn't settle for just a guest shot, haha! Also, I've had to fudge the timeline a little bit to make the Johnlock scene make sense (i.e., weeks instead of days after Sherlock's last encounter with Jim). I'm usually tidier than that, but this story was more organic and less planned than the ones I usually write, so I went back and made a few tweaks to chapter 8 to make the timeline flow better.

Upon arriving at Baker Street, Sherlock exited the car without a word to Moriarty's driver and quickly made his way upstairs. John was waiting for him in the sitting room, still barefoot in his pyjamas and dressing mouth, his lips pressed tightly together, chest heaving with a combination of relief and outrage.

"Thank you, Sherlock," he spat the words out like bullets, "for giving me permission to stop worrying. I was getting pretty sick of it after doing nothing but for HOURS!"

Sherlock took off his coat, not saying a word, but keeping his eyes fixed on John. His poor, suffering John. If Moriarty was true to his word — and he would be — there was more suffering to come, no doubt.

"Do I even want to know what all this is about?" John asked, frustrated. "One minute you're trying to seduce me and the next you're running off to see a man who assaulted you. A man who has promised to kill you. For reasons entirely unknown to me."

Sherlock remained silent, but kept his eyes trained on John, holding the doctor's gaze. His eyes were so different from Jim's — warm and full of pain and concern. He stepped closer and John fell silent, confused, but transfixed by Sherlock's eyes. Eyes that seemed to change colour with the weather or his mood or the colour of his shirt or god knows why. They were just a part of Sherlock — ever-changing and impossible to figure out.

John let him get close. Sherlock was relieved for that. John was forced to tip his head up slightly to keep eye contact.

Sherlock cradled the back of John's neck in his hand. The doctor shivered at the touch.

"I am sorry," he said softly, and leaned forward to press a kiss to the other man's forehead. John made a soft, breathy sound. Sherlock rested his own forehead against John's for a fleeting moment, then let him go and retreated to his bedroom, shutting the door.

He heard John sigh and mutter to himself, and then the quiet padding of feet back upstairs and his flatmate's own door clicking shut.

John was restless that night, his sleep light, barely skimming the surface of dreams. Groggy upon waking, he heard movement downstairs. This was normal, as Sherlock did not need the kind of sleep that normal people needed.

John was finishing his shower when he heard a curious sound. At first he thought he'd imagined it, but when he turned the water off, there it was.

The kettle whistling.

Unless Sherlock required boiling water for an experiment (which was entirely possible), there was only one other reason why the kettle would be boiling.

And when John shuffled out of the bathroom in his robe, hair still wet and spiky, there was Sherlock, sweeping gracefully across the floor in his blue silk dressing gown, presenting John with a cup of a tea.

"Good morning, John."

"… morning," John murmured warily, lifting the cup to his lips, then taking it away. "Wait … did you drug this?"

"What?"

"Why are you giving me tea? Is this bloody Baskerville all over again? What did you do to it?"

"It's just tea, John. I heard you get up, so I made tea."

John took a tentative sip of the brew. It was perfect, with just the right amount of milk and no sugar. "I see what you're doing," he muttered, moving to sit at the table, which was also suspiciously free of lab equipment.

"Doing? What am I doing?" Sherlock settled into the chair opposite John, cradling his own cup of tea, managing to look innocent and adorable at the same time.

"You're sucking up. Trying to make me forgive you for last night."

"Is it working?"

John frowned then shrugged, sipping the tea again. "A little bit, maybe. But you are so far from off the hook, Sherlock."

Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around his cup of tea, leaning forward intently. "Like I said last night, I am sorry. I … had much to process. This whole experience since the night with Ji–, Moriarty — has thrown everything off balance quite a bit."

"'Quite a bit'? That's an understatement," John muttered. Then he looked at Sherlock hard. Looked at him in a way in which Sherlock was unaccustomed. Sherlock reckoned perhaps it was the way people felt when he himself looked at them.

"What is it, John?"

"Did you get what you needed?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I'll be blunt, then. Was it good the second time around?"

Sherlock blinked. "I don't know what — how, John?" He swallowed and asked again, more quietly. "How did you know?"

"I share a flat with the world's greatest deductive genius. Clearly it's rubbing off on me."

"No, it's not. I'm —"

"Yes, yes, far too clever," John said softly, and looked Sherlock in the eye. "But I'm not stupid, Sherlock. Perhaps this is all new to you, but it's not to me. Any adult person knows what it means when someone takes off in the middle of the night to see someone with whom they've had a sexual tryst and they don't return until the wee hours of the morning, freshly showered, full of secrets and overcompensating, cloying behaviour. Did you really think you could fool me?"

Sherlock stared down at his tea.

"More importantly," said John, "why did you want to fool me? Why should you care what I think? I have no claim over you. I don't like being treated like a jealous wife. I am not your wife, thank Christ, and frankly, you can do whatever the bloody hell you want. You always do. You needed to get off and I wasn't playing along, so you manned up and found the one you really wanted. It figures that the only sexual congress you'd gravitate towards is that with someone who is a complete nutter."

"No," said Sherlock tightly.

"No?"John leaned back and folded his arms over his chest in a defiant gesture.

"No!" said Sherlock. "It's not like that at all. Not really."

"Not really? Please explain, Sherlock. Normally I'm content to steer clear of the contents of your head, but in this case, I'm dead curious as to why I shouldn't punch you in the face right now. And I won't avoid your nose and teeth this time. For being so fucking disrespectful and using my feelings for you against me. You said I was your only friend and you're bloody well not acting like it."

"I wanted you," Sherlock said quietly.

"Bollocks."

"I did — I … I do." Sherlock rested his elbows on the table and buried his hands in his hair as he often did when his thoughts refused to arrange themselves in a logical order. "But yes, I had thought of Ji—, Mor—"

"Just call him Jim," John interrupted impatiently. "Since clearly you two have been on a first-name basis for a while now."

"Jim," Sherlock said between gritted teeth. "You can't argue with the fact that I went through an extremely altering experience with him."

"If that's what you want to call it. Yes."

"He wanted to see me again — if I came of my own accord — and initially I refused. But you're right, I saved the tie. At the time I didn't know why, but now I know it was because it was something tangible from an experience that I could only access through memory. And I was being tormented by carnal feelings I'd previously ignored or repressed. I wanted to share them with you."

"Oh, so it's my fault because I didn't fall into your arms like a besotted damsel. 'Oh, my prince has come at last! Tra-la-la!'" John's mouth twisted as he spat the words out.

"No, NO!" Sherlock banged the table with his fist, causing his tea to slosh. He looked up and his eyes were blazing, but not with anger — just pure emotion. The force of it caused John to sit back even more.

"I don't blame you for reacting the way you did," said Sherlock. "It was entirely correct and I apologize for putting you in that position. I needed — I needed to revisit my experience with Jim to figure out what it was I needed. I even asked him what I did wrong with you."

John laughed; a barking, humourless sound. "Are you winding me up, Sherlock? No, seriously, are you telling me that you asked Moriarty for romantic advice. About me?"

"You don't understand," Sherlock muttered.

"No, no," John said, pressing his fingers to his lips and chuckling, shaking his head. "Of course I do. You're mad. Utterly mad. So who better to turn to than a madman? I suppose it was his idea to have you lie about the fact that you two were shagging like rabbits all night?"

Sherlock shrugged minutely, looking down at his hands, so clearly out of his depth with this kind of situation and conversation.

John sighed and leaned his face into his palm. "Sherlock, I don't even know what to do with you. I should walk out of this flat and never come back."

Sherlock looked up in alarm. "John! No, you —"

John raised his other hand, palm out, shaking his head. "But I won't. Believe me, you're not the first person in the world to swan off and shag a completely inappropriate person because you share some kind of fucked-up chemistry with them. Just tell me what you concluded after this romp."

Sherlock was silent for a few moments. "That … that I am yours, John. If you will have me."

John nodded. "Is that all, then?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course, I know that you will need some time to think about—"

"No, Sherlock," John interrupted him again, standing up from the table. "You don't know. You may know a great many things about everything else, but about this? You don't know shit."

Sherlock flinched almost imperceptibly, lowering his gaze.

"Well, it's true. If you're asking flipping James Moriarty for advice, then you are a complete idiot." John's voice was firm, but not angry. "Now, we've talked about this. I don't want you to bring it up again. I don't want you sneaking into my bedroom in your pants. I don't want any of your games, your manipulations, or your bloody omissions. You need to let me think about this in my own way, in my own time. Obviously you've given me a great deal to mull over."

Sherlock nodded. "Jim said …" he started, then trailed off, looking away guiltily.

John put his hands on his hips. "Jim said what, exactly?"

"He said I should put the ball in your court," Sherlock muttered softly.

John snorted. "Blimey. Well, he got one thing right at least. Go figure." He turned on his heel and headed smartly back upstairs, tossing over his shoulder, "He did a great job with your hair, by the way. You should look into using some product, don't you think?" The door to John's room slammed shut.

Sherlock didn't see him again for the rest of the day.

The next day proceeded normally. And the day after that. And the day after that. Sherlock made tea for John the first day and received a stern look, so he stopped making tea. He went back to forgetting to buy milk and was soon wrapped up in a case. John went to work at the surgery and assisted Sherlock as usual. They fell back into the normal pattern of life.

Only it wasn't entirely normal. Now, when Sherlock had moments to spare, the crushing boredom he felt was replaced by longing for John. The carnal life that Jim had awakened in his formerly complacent body would not be vanquished. It was like Jim had broken him open and he had no outlet for all the strange, foreign feelings and urges spilling out of him.

But he trusted that John would eventually address the situation in some way. He trusted that John would not leave him hanging. He trusted that John would be true to his word and eventually tell Sherlock, one way or another, if Sherlock could be his.

He trusted John. And if this was a test, he intended to pass it. Sherlock was nothing if not stubborn and determined. And he certainly would not lower himself to any kind of base, grotesque behaviour such as seeking out sex on the sly. Though he had resorted to self-pleasure in greater frequency than ever before in his adult life. Late at night in his bedroom when he was certain John was asleep. Pride dictated that John could not know that he was succumbing to the urges while he waited.

Sometimes he thought of Jim … Moriarty. As time passed, he became Moriarty in Sherlock's mind again. The experience they had shared had run its course and Sherlock was focused on the matter at hand — winning John back. If only he'd known before that he'd had John all along. But there was no point in dwelling on that — the fact remained that Sherlock had needed to be broken to realize what was right in front of him. John — gentle, kind, John — was not the sort to break anyone. Only Moriarty had known what to do. Sherlock resented him for being so sure of himself and so successful in his mission. It made him all the more determined to defeat him in their next meeting. Which involved Mycroft somehow. But he'd not gotten far in trying to deduce what the matter might be. He hadn't questioned Mycroft, as he knew that would be about as fruitful as squeezing blood from a stone. But obviously Moriarty had a plan and he would share it with Sherlock when the time was right.

Sherlock was a light sleeper. His brain never fully turned off, only cycled down a few levels to allow his body to rest itself when necessary. So when his door creaked open, he immediately stirred, looking over in the direction of the sound. He blinked as a warm, soft light illuminated the room.

John. Holding a candle in a silver holder. Wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama bottoms.

"John," Sherlock murmured, confused. "Is something —"

He was interrupted as John placed a finger against his lips, asking for silence. Sherlock nodded faintly and watched, curious, as John stepped farther into the room until he stood next to Sherlock's bed. John carefully set the candleholder down on the bedside table. Sherlock stared up at him. He'd never seen John shirtless before and his eyes roamed over his form, first noting the scars on his shoulder, then the pale golden hair on his chest, which caught the light of the candle. He had a compact build and while he was fit, there was a softness to him that was likely a result of convalescing from his wound and no longer being in active service. He noted the pale nipples, hardened from the cool air in the room, and the trail of slightly darker hair disappearing into his pyjama bottoms. Sherlock drew a breath, immediately feeling his body responding, a warm tightening in his groin.

John stood still, letting Sherlock look at him and smiling faintly when the detective's eyes dropped lower. John hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the cotton trousers and tugged them down.

Sherlock's eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat as John Watson stood before him, completely naked. His cock was not terribly long, but thick and more than half-hard. John reached down and peeled back the covers from Sherlock's bed. Normally, the detective preferred to sleep in the nude, but the chill in the air had compelled him to don his pyjama bottoms and the soft, grey T-shirt he sometimes wore around the flat.

John undressed Sherlock slowly and methodically, tugging the shirt up and over his head and urging him to lift his hips as he eased his trousers off. By the time John slipped into Sherlock's bed, easing down on top of him and settling his weight between Sherlock's legs, the detective's breathing was quick and he was faintly trembling.

"You said you were mine if I would have you," John murmured softly, brushing a few curls away from Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock nodded mutely, unable to speak.

"You are mine," John whispered. "And I will have you."

John kissed Sherlock then, and the sleuth whimpered audibly with need and with utter relief. John stroked Sherlock's hair and simply kissed him for a long time: something Sherlock hadn't really experienced before. He and Jim had kissed infrequently, and even then it was more of an expression of power and felt more like bites. John's kisses were different: it was all soft and tender, yet demanding and all-encompassing. Sherlock could think of nothing else when John kissed him that way. He wrapped his arms around John, feeling the heat growing between their bodies. John. His John. Warm and naked against him, his erection burning against Sherlock's stomach. And he was hard, too. So hard. John stroked Sherlock's curls off his forehead and looked down at him; his eyes were warm and kind, but there was a sharp gleam of hunger there, too.

"Will you let me, Sherlock?" he murmured. "Will you …?"

He didn't need to finish asking the question, because Sherlock was nodding and pulling John closer and already it was different because he'd been asked permission and it made the giving over of his body an easier and more meaningful gesture.

And at that moment John's mouth and hands were on Sherlock's torso and it felt like John already knew just where to lick and kiss and touch him, reducing Sherlock to a shivering mass of desire in no time at all. He moved with a kind of confidence and assuredness that made Sherlock content to let the doctor lead the way. His back arched and he moaned helplessly as John's lips wrapped around an erect nipple at the same moment his hand slipped between Sherlock's legs and took his cock in hand.

"Beautiful. You are so beautiful," John groaned, moving back up to claim Sherlock mouth's hungrily again. They arched up against one another and Sherlock was consumed by a growing warmth that was inflaming every synapse and nerve ending. He wanted. He wanted John. More than anything he'd ever wanted before. He whimpered John's name desperately and the doctor just seemed to recognize the edge in his voice, because soon he was fumbling in the bedside drawer. "God, Sherlock, I really hope you have some … ah, good …" He pulled out a bottle of lubricant.

"How did you know that I—"

"Please, Sherlock." John grinned, flipping open the cap on the bottle. "It's a small flat and the walls are thin. Don't think I haven't heard what you've been getting up on your own here in the last few weeks. He stroked the pads of two fingers around Sherlock's entrance and the other man moaned, too caught up to even get embarrassed.

"I liked hearing it," John whispered, gently slipping one finger inside Sherlock and smiling when the other man whimpered softly. "Sounds like that. Hearing you pleasure yourself, getting to know your own body at last. Figuring out the things you like. I want to do the things you like. Do you like this?" He pushed in a little deeper and crooked his finger carefully to find Sherlock's prostate.

Sherlock groaned. "Yes, John. I do."

"Has anyone taken you in their mouth before?"

Sherlock's breathed hitched. "N-n-no …"

By "anyone," John obviously meant Jim, but Sherlock understood if John didn't want to say the man's name aloud at this time. And oral sex wasn't something Jim had demanded, surprisingly enough. And when Sherlock had gone back to Jim he hadn't thought to ask for it.

But when John shifted down, still knuckle-deep inside him and closed his warm, wet mouth around Sherlock's erection, he let out a groaning cry and immediately wondered why he hadn't asked for it, but god, it hardly mattered now because he had it and he had it with John and god, it was glorious.

"John," he gasped. "Oh god …" His hand unconsciously found its way to John's head, his fingers burying themselves in his friend's short, sandy hair and tugging at it, his hips twitching and back arching as John worked him slowly with his mouth, learning Sherlock with lips and tongue while his fingers moved inside, stroking Sherlock and coaxing the ring of muscle to relax. And when Sherlock's grip tightened enough in John's hair to cause pain and John felt the other man's muscles tense in anticipation of orgasm, he pulled off and pulled out, causing Sherlock to groan in disappointment, but John pulled him close and kissed his lips tenderly, his hands still touching and stroking Sherlock — just in non-erogenous zones this time, though Sherlock was starting to question if any part of his body wasn't eroticized when John was touching it.

"Shhh," John whispered, a hint of a smile playing over his features. "Don't want you to get off just yet. I need you to settle a little bit, shhhhh."

And he stroked Sherlock's hair and kissed him deeply and Sherlock allowed himself to be lost in the sensation: warm, soft lips and tongue and John's hands mapping his body. Making it his. And he settled, his need no less than before, but no longer in danger of coming with a misplaced touch.

Then John pulled back and Sherlock made an unhappy, impatient sound and John chuckled faintly. "Blimey, I should have known you'd be just as demanding in bed as you are outside of it. Hang on a moment, yeah?" Sherlock heard the bottle of lubricant click open again and this time he was quick to take it from John.

"Sherlock? What are you doing. I need that … oh …" His words trailed off as Sherlock wrapped a slick hand around John's cock and began to stroke him slowly.

"Yes, you do need that," Sherlock murmured softly.

John looked at him with hazy eyes and leaned down to kiss Sherlock, his hips lazily rolling into Sherlock's grip, his prick growing harder until Sherlock let out a hungry growl, his hand guiding John down as he lifted his own legs and they both moaned helplessly as John slowly sank inside, John holding Sherlock's gaze the whole while. The eye contact provided a curious sensation for Sherlock: an intensity he'd never known before when it came to this act.

"Are you all right? Does this feel all right?" John whispered, fighting to keep his voice steady.

"Yes, John," Sherlock murmured. "Yes, it's all right. All of it."

"Good. Lift your legs a little, wrap them around me loosely, just like that. Feel that?"

"Oh … oh, god."

John smiled. "Yeah. It's good. It's fantastic." He kissed Sherlock deeply and began to move. And Sherlock began to move and the he wasn't sure who was leading the way or if anyone was, but he and John were simply moving together. John's lips on his lips and his neck and shoulders and their hands were everywhere and he felt completely consumed and overwhelmed and possessed by everything that was John.

The flickering candlelight cast shadows over John's face and Sherlock was deeply aroused by the innate power and strength he could feel in John's body as the he moved against Sherlock, wringing soft cries and moans from Sherlock's lips. Then John slipped one hand behind Sherlock's neck, his grip tightening there and he was moving harder and faster and Sherlock was urging him on, groaning John's name, snapping his hips up to meet each deep, hard thrust.

Sherlock shuddered when he felt John's hand close around him, stroking him in time.

"J-J-John," he stammered, panting.

"It's all right, Sherlock." John kissed his lips. "You can let go whenever you're ready …"

Sherlock gazed up at his lover, latching on to the warmth and security in his eyes. There had been none of that in Jim's black, soulless orbs. But then Jim had been urging Sherlock on to finish himself off. Sherlock had assumed it had been because it was part of Sherlock's humiliation and Jim got off on seeing Sherlock touch himself for Jim's amusement, but now he realized it was also because Jim simply couldn't be arsed to make the effort to help him along. Why would he?

But now John was buried so deeply inside him, and his hand was stroking expertly over Sherlock's cock and when his orgasm hit, it took Sherlock utterly by surprise and he cried out, clinging to John as his body shook and shuddered, his cock shooting hard over John's fingers and his stomach

John groaned. "Sherlock, oh my fucking god …" he trailed off as his hand slipped away, wet and sticky, and he rode Sherlock hard and deep, letting out an explosive groan when he came a minute or so later. Sherlock moaned softly, holding John close, fascinated by the sight, sound, and feel of the other man coming apart in his arms.

And then, a few moments later, all was still.

"John?" Sherlock asked very quietly.

No response right away except for shaky breathing. Then, "Yes, Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked, tightening his arms around John a little more. "If this is a dream, then I want you to know right now that I wish it wasn't. That I want … wanted … this very much."

"It's not a dream, Sherlock," John murmured, nuzzling behind Sherlock's ear. "I woke you up, remember? And you are well stuck with me now."

"That's … very good," said Sherlock quietly, his voice hitching a little. "This was … different. It was quite … extraordinary."

John raised his head to look at Sherlock, smiling softly. "Anyone can fuck," he said gently. "Anyone at all. But it takes a hell of a lot more to be able to make love. And that's what you and I just did. That's what separates us from the beasts. And a person like Moriarty … he's not capable of experiencing that kind of intimacy. He can't even hope to comprehend it. And that, Sherlock," John's voice also hitched, "is what separates you from him."

Sherlock nodded solemnly, then buried his face in John's neck, pulling him in close.

"I'm not like him," Sherlock mumbled; then a bit more fiercely, "I'm not."

"I know, Sherlock, I know," John soothed, stroking Sherlock's curls and kissing his cheek. "You're safe now."

Sherlock lowered his head a little to nuzzle at John's scar tissue, learning its texture with his lips. "Yes," he murmured, then added, far more quietly, "for now."

John, still muzzy-headed after his orgasm and suddenly distracted by the interestingly pleasurable sensation of Sherlock's mouth against his scars, was too distracted to hear the second thing Sherlock said and Sherlock decided that it was for the best. He'd been told to enjoy his doctor while he could and that was precisely what Sherlock intended to do. The next move belonged to Jim and all Sherlock could do was wait for it. The only thing he was certain of was that Jim would not win this game. Not now. Not ever.