Author's note: The last chapter. See? This story was shorter than my other multi-chapter fics, just like I said!

Mind: It was longer than you thought it would be, though.

Me: Piss Off.

Anyway... more about it later, as usual.

I don't own anything, please review.

John ran, like he'd never run before, without knowing why. He was sure that Sherlock needed him, and that he had to find him soon – but he couldn't say why.

Later, he would realize that he hadn't known where to find Sherlock, that he had just run and run until he found himself, out of breath, in front of St Bart's. Being drawn by the same force that had led his steps there, he went in and climbed up to the roof.

It was dark. Of course it was. It was the middle of December, and from the street, he hadn't been able to see anything.

But now...

Now he saw Sherlock standing on the roof top, just like Moriarty must have seen him, before he shot himself. And he realized that Sherlock was going to jump, and suddenly, he couldn't think anymore. It was just like all those years ago, but this time, he was watching it not from the ground, but from the very first rank, and he rushed forwards, crying out his friend's name.

Sherlock was standing on the rooftop, ready to jump if it meant saving his friends – even if he didn't know why they were his friends, even if he didn't know why it seemed so familiar – and hesitated.

He hesitated, just for a moment, because there was this strangeness again; the strangeness that told him he should be feeling something at this very moment, something he'd felt before. The strangeness that told him that John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, even Mycroft meant more to him than he remembered.

He hesitated for one moment – just one moment – to look over London, draw in its sweet air one more time, but then –

"Sherlock!" A desperate cry. Again, he felt like he should recognize it, but couldn't. He turned around.

John was rushing towards him, stopping when he realized that Sherlock was looking at him. Even though there wasn't much distance between them, Sherlock felt like it was a huge gulf. Because John – John was obviously worried about him. The way he'd shouted his name, his panting... he'd ran. He'd ran to find Sherlock in time, though, of course, he couldn't. Because the ghost had obviously fulfilled his part of the bargain, and now –

Sherlock had to do what the ghost had told him to do.

But he couldn't, not in front of John. There was something – anything – keeping him – but what?

He passed a hand across his forehead.

"Sherlock". John slowly took a step towards him. "Please, step away from the edge. I know I haven't been the best friend you could have lately – I know I ignored you, and I was mean, I don't know why, but, please, Sherlock – "

"John" Sherlock interrupted him. "I know exactly why you've been acting like you don't care about me. And, trust me, the only solution is – "

"No." It was said so firmly that Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Why would John think that –

"Not again, Sherlock. Please, not again."

Not again?

Sherlock remembered what the ghost had said – "You died for your friends once" – and tried to make sense of all this. Had he jumped off this roof once before, had he died once before? But how? This was –

John took another step towards him, apparently realizing what was going on.

"Don't you remember? I didn't. For – for a whole night, I didn't remember – I couldn't remember what you'd given me, I couldn't remember how alone I was before I met you. Sherlock, step down, and I will tell you about everything, I promise. Just..."

"John, you don't understand. I have to jump, so you can remember. I am lost, but – "

Sherlock trailed off when he saw John walk to his right and Sherlock's left, instead of towards Sherlock; he only realized what the doctor was going to do when he stepped on the ledge too, a few metres next to him.

"If you jump, I'm going to jump too."

"John..." He didn't know what he was going to say – Don't be stupid, let it be, leave me alone so I can kill myself? He only knew that John was just ruining his plan to atone for what he'd done to his friends, and –

But, suddenly, he felt dizzy.

"Sherlock!"

He might have lost consciousness for a few seconds; but the next thing he knew, he was lying on the roof of St Bart's, John apparently having caught him, or his arm, in time to pull him away from the ledge, and he was looking into the doctor's eyes, and everything came rushing back.

His childhood, his parents neglecting him, the servants afraid of him, but Mycroft there, supporting him, making sure he always had a small microscope, and enough(harmless) substances to experiment with.

His cocaine addiction, meeting Mrs. Hudson and Greg, Mycroft forcing him to detox in his house.

Him alone, still alone, until, one day, Mike Stamford introduced him to John Watson, and the whole world changed.

Moriarty and his games. Moriarty and his final stand.

Three years in which he'd killed, and been lonely, and wished, desperately wished, to be where he belonged, to be with his friends again...

Still dizzy, and trying to make sense of all that had happened in the last few days, he croaked out, "John – I remember".

John grinned, and he couldn't help but smile back.

"I'd hoped you would. Now, I know, standing up after this – experience isn't easy, but, please, try. It's cold, and it's time that you got back into the warm."

Sherlock tried, and, while he was still slightly dizzy and a bit disoriented, he managed to stand up and get out of St Bart's with John's help.

After getting a cab (for once, John called one), Sherlock said "I know what happened."

John looked at him. "You mean you know that you wanted – "

"No" Sherlock interrupted him. "I mean I know why we behaved the way we did, and, don't worry, it was no experiment".

"Glad to hear that" John responded, but he smirked, and Sherlock smiled.

"Is – is Greg still at 221B?" he inquired.

"I suppose so. He was going to look after – " John looked guilty. "I should have called him."

"Text him. Tell him we're on our way. I'm sure Mycroft will intercept the text and realize I'm safe" Sherlock drawled.

John shook his head, but did as he was told.

They didn't talk until they reached 221B, but Sherlock took John's hand and squeezed it, only for a moment, but it was enough. They were friends again, and nothing else mattered.

When they arrived at 221B, the door opened before they'd even paid the cab driver. Mrs. Hudson was awaiting them, Greg standing in the corridor behind her.

"Boys! I'm so sorry, I don't know why i said the things I did, I – John, you are not going to move out?"

Sherlock bit his lip; the thought that John would still want to move out hadn't even occurred to him. He looked at his flatmate as he slowly answered, "No, of course not, Mrs. Hudson." He looked at Sherlock, fondness in his eyes. "Why would I?"

"Oh, thank you" Mrs. Hudson breathed, and Sherlock could only agree with her. She hugged John, then Sherlock and finally Greg, who seemed surprised but still hugged her back, too, and made them promise that "they'd call, whatever it was they wanted."

"So, are you going to tell us what happened?" John inquired, as the three friends walked up the stairs to John's and Sherlock's flat.

Sherlock took a deep breath. His story was – well, frankly it was unbelievable. But they deserved to know.

So he began to talk.

They listened.

They listened for the better part of two hours, while slowly, the shops closed and people hurried home.

Then John bit his lip, and Sherlock knew what he was going to say.

"I am aware that it sounds impossible. But – just believe me. Please."

John simply shook his head, while Greg looked mildly amused. "I believe you, Sherlock, as always, though I don't know why I should" their DI laughed. His doctor reciprocated his gesture from the cab and squeezed his hand. Sherlock smiled.

John looked at them both. "I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Takeaway?"

They agreed – Sherlock, if he remembered correctly, hadn't eaten since the bestowal of the gift – and they watched crap telly while they ate, Sherlock more relaxed than he'd been since he returned.

Greg said goodbye around ten pm – obviously going to spend the night at Molly's flat, though Sherlock said nothing about it – and John put him to bed soon afterwards, because he could barely keep his eyes open. Though only half-conscious, he smiled when he heard his doctor say "Goodnight, Sherlock".

He went to the Diogenes Club the next afternoon, having told John and Mrs. Hudson where he was going – he didn't want to scare them – to talk to Mycroft, who was more than surprised to see him.

"Mycroft, I need to tell you something, and please, don't interrupt me..."

And Sherlock told him the whole story while his brother, to his credit, didn't interrupt him once.

Then, he slowly asked, "Sherlock, you do know that what you are telling me is impossible?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I do, Mycroft. Just... take it for what it's worth. Say I've dreamed it, say I've seen it in the fire during one of me meditations, say the ghost was only the representation of my gloomy thoughts – but leave it at that."

Mycroft looked like he wanted to say something, but nodded instead.

Sherlock looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "And just so you know – in the future, I only expect interesting cases from you, or I won't even let you in the door."

His brother actually laughed, and Sherlock smirked. He stood up.

"Goodbye, Mycroft".

"Goodbye, Sherlock" his brother answered, but just as Sherlock had reached the door, he had an idea.

He turned around. "Just so you know, we are going to have a Christmas party this year- and you are going to be there. If necessary, pass a law, but you are going to be there."

Without waiting for his brother's answer, he turned around again and left, not knowing that Mycroft Holmes, who had scared the Prime minister on several occasions, actually beamed at his words.

He talked to Mrs. Hudson, who immediately started to plan what to get for their party, as soon as he returned, and had got as far as to say "We are going to have a Christmas party..." to John, when his phone rang.

"Greg" he answered. "Yes, of course I'll come – We'll come. How can we refuse?"

He hung up. "It's Greg – there's been a triple murder in a house not far from Oxford Street, doors locked, no signs of a burglary, no witnesses – it really is Christmas!"

John smiled fondly at him. "Alright then, let's go."

"You're not going to tell me I shouldn't be so happy about this case?"

John simply laughed. "Why should I? I've given up on teaching you the importance of any social conventions whatsoever."

But he still smiled, even as Sherlock dragged him into the cold and in a cab.

They spent the cab ride looking out the windows in a comfortable silence.

Snow was falling.

Christmas was coming.

Author's note: I decided to finish this story today, and not tomorrow, because I really left people hanging – the cliffhanger was nothing if not cruel.

One of the reasons I think "The Haunted Man And The Ghosts' Bargain" such an underrated book is because it deals with a problem that almost everyone is confronted with at least once in his life – is it better to feel everything, or nothing at all?

Would we feel the same about the people we loved if we could be sure not to grieve when death took them away from us? Could we laugh as freely as we do without ever having known the bitterness of tears? Would we cherish the sun without the memory of rain?

I, for my part, have decided that I wouldn't, and am happy to be what I've always been – a little bit crazy, but happy.

Anyway, if I only got a handful of people to google this book, I'll be glad.

And, please, if you have read so far, and never left a review, do it now. I would appreciate to know what you think about this story.

I hope each and every one of you has a wonderful day.