A/N: Here it is. The final chapter! Thank you all so, so much for taking the time to read this! It's been amazing to see all the reviews, favourites, and follows... seriously. You guys are great!

Warnings: Utter JohnLock fluff.

Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock.

It had been nearly a year since 'the Incident,' and Sherlock was true to his word when he said that everything he had was John's as well. The number of clients skyrocketed as a result of John's blog, despite all of its 'frivolous details' and 'blatant omissions of important facts and deductions.'

Business at the agency boomed, and Sherlock claimed he had little use for the extra profit. John suspected that was merely for his benefit, as he found pamphlets for top-notch rehab institutions on his desk, as well as business cards for prestigious cancer research and treatment facilities. Clearly, Sherlock tried to accommodate his pride while giving him a push in what he deemed the 'right direction.'

As much as John hated asking others for financial help, he supposed that, in this instance, it was not the case. John certainly earned at least half the profits – running after Sherlock at all times of the night, wrestling trained killers, rummaging through dumpsters on a regular basis… Not that he was complaining.

Not at all. In fact, John had never felt so alive.

Therefore, John decided, if he wanted to spend the money he rightfully earned to help his family; he was going to damn well do it.

It took a while to get Harry on board. It was only after the collapse of her latest relationship and the loss of her job that she finally caved to see help. With his mother in a treatment centre on the edge of the city, and Harry in Scotland for rehab, John was left alone in his worn out flat.

It was only logical, then, that John should move in to Baker Street, Sherlock pointed out. John found he could not argue. Splitting the rent at one place was thriftier than each of them paying separate bills. Besides, their relationship was growing steadily stronger, and John had no qualms with seeing his partner every day.

And so it was. The transition was surprisingly natural for the both of them. John was less than thrilled about the body parts in the fridge the first few times, but he was getting used to it. It was all fine, as long as Sherlock kept experiments out of the kettle and away from their food supply.

As the holiday season neared, more and more clients piled up at the doors of the agency, and Sherlock made the abrupt decision to close it.

John was, needlessly to say, utterly shocked. He followed Sherlock around as he locked all the doors for the last time, rooms barren and strange. He spluttered about how the work was the most important thing to Sherlock, how brilliant he was at it, and Sherlock promptly shut him up with a finger to his lips.

John swallowed harshly under the unrelenting pressure of Sherlock's finger, as the detective moved closer.

"There are more important things than the work, John," he whispered, silver eyes burning. John's heart fluttered, but the disbelief and panic still gnawed at him.

Seeing John's confusion, Sherlock continued. "I never said I was giving up on the work, John, I'm merely changing how I do it. Running a business like this requires too many legal obligations on cases, as does being a private detective. I've invented my own job title. I'm a consulting detective. I'm still bound to the law, but it is not breathing down my neck – except Mycroft, perhaps. We're free to investigate as we please."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, but when they did, John positively beamed.

"Quite clever, Mr. Holmes," John whispered huskily, eyes closing and pulling Sherlock in by his coat.

Sherlock smirked, his hands resting on John's waist. "Why, thank you, Mr. Watson," he murmured against John's lips, before sealing them together.

It was eleven at night on New Year's Eve, and John sat on the sofa, tea in hand, watching telly. He had returned from surgery to find the flat empty – odd, he didn't remember Sherlock being on any cases – but shrugged and settled in to watch the Doctor Who marathon.

Not twenty minutes later, John's phone chimed with a message from Sherlock.

Waterloo Bridge. Urgent. SH

John leapt over the back of the sofa, pulling on his coat and shuffling into his shoes without a second thought.

"Don't wait up, Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled as he burst through the front door. He waved down a cab and dove in.

"Waterloo Bridge, quickly please!"

They wound through London quickly, though not as fast as John would have liked. As soon as the cab stopped, John was stumbling out, throwing cash towards the driver. "Keep the change!"

John spotted a tall figure in a long coat staring out over the Thames, and he ran towards him, at Sherlock's side in seconds.

"Sherlock! What is it? What's happened?" John panted, leaning against the railing to catch his breath. His eyes were alert and scanning the crowds for anything suspicious.

Sherlock chuckled, and John's eyes snapped back to him, noticing suddenly that he looked perfectly unharmed and relaxed.

"You're early," Sherlock said, checking the time on his phone.

John glared, crossing his arms over his chest. "You said it was urgent," he retorted.

"It is," Sherlock whispered, looking anywhere but at John. Sherlock bit his lip, and John realized that Sherlock's hand trembled as he tucked his phone back in his pocket.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" John was tense again, but Sherlock set his hand gently on John's shoulder.

"I've heard many rumours about being with someone you love on New Year's Eve. I want to know your opinion," Sherlock's face was blank, but his eyes danced with something John couldn't place.

John's breath caught. Sherlock had never outright told John he loved him. He had his ways of expressing it, certainly, through different phrases and actions, but John couldn't recall a time Sherlock had used the word love to describe what he felt about anything.

"W-well, it's said that if you kiss someone you, um, care about just as midnight hits, you'll be with that person forever. Or, uh, something like that," John searched Sherlock's face for a flicker of something, but Sherlock was carefully avoiding his gaze.

Sherlock remained silent for a moment before meeting John's eyes. He looked almost sheepish.

"Make no mistake, John. What I feel for you is, undoubtedly, love," he whispered. His eyes shifted over the water again, towards the London Eye, where a large crowd had gathered for the countdown and fireworks.

"FIVE!"

Sherlock turned back to John, eyes hardened with resolve as he stepped in close, arms winding around John's waist, pulling.

"FOUR!"

John's hands settled on Sherlock's shoulders, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest, feeling Sherlock's doing the same through his shirt.

"THREE!"

Sherlock's arm slid up from his waist to intertwine his right hand with John's left, bringing it to rest at their sides, fingers still tangled together.

"TWO!"

John's eyes fluttered shut, fingers winding themselves into dark curls at the base of Sherlock's head.

"ONE!"

Sherlock pressed his lips to John's, the arm around his waist tugging John closer. His palm flattened on John's lower back, sliding up along his spine, and John shivered. Sherlock sucked on his lower lip, teeth grazing the skin, until John allowed Sherlock in, tongue tracing his lips and teeth.

John groaned, and Sherlock's hand untangled with his for a moment before coming back, sliding something warm and heavy onto John's ring finger. John gasped and pulled away.

"Sherlock?" John's eyes searched Sherlock's. The sounds of the fireworks and crowds were muted as John quivered with hope.

Sherlock's face was unreadable as he took John's hand in both of his own, raising it to rest over his heart. He dropped to one knee.

"John Watson, will you marry me?" Sherlock's voice was pure and vulnerable, staring imploringly into John's eyes. He kissed the thin silver band around John's finger, thumbs massaging his palm.

John's breath hitched, and he pulled his hands away from Sherlock, whose face fell dramatically, radiating hurt. His eyes fell to the ground. "H-have I misread-"

John grasped his wrists and yanked Sherlock to his feet, immediately pulling him into his arms.

"Yes. God, yes!" John spoke directly into his ear, eyelashes tickling his cheek. Sherlock blinked, then sighed, muscles losing their tension as he held John close. His smile was infectious, as he felt John's lips curve up against his jaw. John shook with excited laughter, and Sherlock soon joined in.

At the start of this New Year, with the fireworks and cheering, and John in his arms, Sherlock had no doubt that this would be the best year yet.

Have a very happy New Year, everyone! Thank you again. (:

~Idiot-The-Great