Hey, guys, this is where our story ends! I hope you enjoy this last chapter. There will be so much fluff, your heart will ache!

I have to thank foreverwholocked yet again, because this wouldn't have been the same without her. Having someone to talk about the writing and to help me with everything made the process easier and much more fun.

Thank you who followed the story and left reviews, they were quite motivating. I'd love to read your opinion about the ending and the general plot.

I like to plot a lot, so if any of you ever need someone to talk about some story of yours, I'll be glad to help, no matter what. (Seriously, you can save my profile and message me anytime about your stories, I know it's quite annoying not to have anyone to read your things before you publish, or to just plot together. And I love doing that!) You can also try my tumblr: sureaintmebabe . tumblr . com

It's ending guys! It's thrilling and kind of sad, but let's get on with it!

CHAPTER 8

"How do you know all this?" John asked. "I don't imagine you and your brother having a drunk chat about that day."

"Of course not!" Sherlock scowled. "I spied on him while he used my father's office to plan the funeral. The rest was deductible."

John sat there for a while. "I think I understand..."

"I don't know what you're talking about, but it's improbable, since you're quite stupid," Sherlock said.

John rolled his eyes. "I mean... There wasn't a fight, he didn't stomp your toys when you were a kid, he didn't try to murder you in your sleep when you're a baby-"

"No, I would have done that," Sherlock snorted.

"Anyway, I think I get it."

In the end, it all came back to that surname. John had to admit that after knowing a little about their family history, Sherlock's relationship with Mycroft didn't seem so strange anymore. They were both Holmeses – they would skip the phony pleasantries, and jump straight to the dramatics. It would be the British Government against the world's only Consulting Detective, fighting about cheating diets and unpleasant violins. It sure did give John a little perspective.

They couldn't be normal, they weren't John and Harry – and thinking it through, John had to admit that Sherlock and Mycroft were awfully closer than he and his sister. It didn't matter how much bickering they had between them, they still knew each other better than anyone else. Not only because they were brothers, but because they were Holmeses. They would just sit and deduce the hell out of each other.

'You can imagine the Christmas dinners.' – 'Oh, no, God, no.' But John could, really. Now he could imagine them perfectly. Nothing of the Christmas spirit, or the good natured speeches. One hundred percent of deductions, revelations, dying cat noises on the violin and the tap-tap-tap of that bloody umbrella on the floor. Well, John had to admit that he liked it better now. Anyway, the image of a Christmas dinner still sent shivers through his spine. John was sure Mummy Holmes would not be pleased.

When John snapped from his thoughts, Sherlock was looking at him with an amused expression. "What is it?" John asked.

"Sometimes I can't quite stop myself from wondering, John," Sherlock sighed, "why do you care?"

John frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you aren't just helping. You were curious, I can see that now you're running theories about me and my brother through that slow head of yours. This I understand." Sherlock turned and sat himself with his back to the arm of the sofa, facing John, alarmingly close. "But it's not only that – no, it's not just curiosity, or you would have asked me before. You really care. Well, you care about everything, I know that much, it's obvious. Caretaker, Soldier, doctor- all of that is clear and obvious. But this caring...," he paused, as if he didn't know what to make of the word, "... for me. This doesn't make any sense. Why?"

John looked startled at Sherlock. He tried to suppress the urge to a) have an outburst worthy of a Holmes, b) laugh until his jaw hurt, c) cry until his eyes bleed. He was already relieved, thinking that he wouldn't have to answer when Sherlock spoke again.

"Well?"

"I can't bloody well deduce your family history, can I? I don't know, it's nice knowing about your past, you never tell me anything."

"You never asked."

John sighed. How do you explain to Sherlock Holmes that not everybody is a nosy git like him and his brother? "Thought it would be better to leave it to you to decide to tell me something or not," he shrugged. "Why are you asking me this anyway?"

"You lost a girlfriend and a rugby match- Oh, don't look like that, I knew today was a night of rugby at the pub, I really do pay attention to you, you know. And all this to spend two evenings listening to me babbling about my life, after spending three weeks with me at the hospital," Sherlock said, confused. "Why?"

"Well, I'm kind of your biographer, I'm your blogger," John said, with a tentative smile.

"John."

"I'm your friend."

"John."

"I don't know," John said, quietly, almost a whisper, not looking Sherlock in the eyes. He tried to clear his throat. "I'm under the impression that you'll be stuck with me for a very long time. I know you think it's ridiculous, but I just...," he sighed. "Surely you're a poncy arrogant twat- What? No, don't you roll your eyes at me, you are. But...," he sighed again, "I don't want to be anywhere else. I need to be here."

Sherlock looked at him as if he were mad. After hearing all those stories about Sherlock's life, it didn't surprise John that he had never had someone who would stay by his side without asking for anything at all.

"You are blatantly stupid, John. That's the only possible explanation," Sherlock said. Wrong. The other possible explanation was that he was the most amazing thing in the world, and that was more likely to be true. "I'm glad you are."

John frowned. "Thanks?"

Sherlock snorted, but didn't tear his gaze from John's face. The scrutiny was so familiar to John that he constantly asked himself if he was the nutter for feeling soothed under it. When Sherlock spoke again, his voice was low and intimate.

"My memories of you never faltered," Sherlock said. At John's confused expression he explained: "In the hospital, every single time I woke up, I knew exactly who you were, and could remember everything about you, even how many jumpers you have."

"You know all of my jumpers?"

Sherlock looked at him as if he had grown another had. "Of course I know. But you're missing the point!"

"Sorry."

"What I'm trying to say is...," he stopped. What was he trying to say? Damn it. "Don't you dare go anywhere else, because you are the one fixed point in a whirlwind."

John smiled, absorbing what he had just listened. He had not been prepared for that, but he thought that even in a million times he wouldn't have been. Nobody was ever prepared for Sherlock Holmes. John sat facing him. "That's... hm..." He paused, and changed what he was trying to say to something much simpler. "I won't. Well, you cured my limp, after all."

Sherlock relaxed and smiled, looking very pleased with himself. "Yes, I did that. I saved you from a dull life."

"You're so modest."

"Why would I be modest? It's the truth. I am brilliant."

"Shut up. I could do without the head in the fridge."

"Oh, for God's sake, not that again!"

"Always," John said, smiling, despite of himself. "So, do you want to continue tomorrow?"

Sherlock had sat with his feet on the coffee table, with his fingers under his chin. He took his time to answer the question. John suspected that he didn't know how to answer. "No, I don't need the trunk anymore."

"What do you need?"

"I-" Sherlock trailed off. He brushed his fingers across his lips and narrowed his eyes, looking at nothing in particular. John left him be while he returned Sherlock's things to the trunk and took the mugs to the kitchen.

"You," Sherlock said from behind him, and John jumped at the sound of his voice. Sherlock moved like a cat sometimes, the doctor didn't even notice his presence in the kitchen.

"Me what?"

"You asked me what I need," the detective answered, as if it was obvious and John was being stupid just to irritate him. "I don't need anything, but I need you," he said and frowned. "It doesn't make any sense," he said looking genuinely confused.

John tried to hide his smile. It was just like Sherlock to say something like that as if it was nothing.

"Good. I need you too."

"But what does it mean?"

John sighed and smiled fondly at Sherlock's expression. The poor thing was really at a loss. The doctor approached Sherlock and held his gaze.

"It means," he said, brushing a curl of the detective's forehead. He thought about how to complete the sentence, but he didn't know how to put into words everything that they've been through together, and everything they meant to each other. What did everything mean? How could he know? Some silly romantic part of his brain supplied several explanations that Sherlock would find nonsensical and outrageous. John couldn't explain with words.

He took Sherlock gently by the jaw, and the detective instinctively lowered himself to rest his forehead against John's. The doctor brushed his lips lightly across the corner of Sherlock's mouth and pressed a gentle kiss against it. He felt and heard Sherlock's surprised intake of breath.

For a moment panic shot through him. What was he thinking? But before his second thoughts could take over, Sherlock's arms pulled him into an unexpected embrace, and John found himself resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder and felt the detective rest his head on his. If John didn't know better, he would think Sherlock was cataloguing his hair.

After sometime, Sherlock snorted.

"What?" John asked, looking up to find Sherlock smiling at him with the most amusing expression.

"So you were jealous of me with Irene."

John arched his eyebrows and smiled despite himself. "Now who's stupid?"

"It's hardly my fault you can be this much of an idiot, is it?" Sherlock asked, looking more and more amused by the second.

"Oh shut up, you git."

Sherlock snorted again, but tightened his grip around John. "Preposterous for you to be jealous, John," he said, and John could feel Sherlock's smile and the warm brush of his breathing near his ear. "You are my exception."