Sorry that this update has taken so long. I had an unexpected rush of homework after way too many snow days so all of my classes have been playing catch up with their syllabuses. All of my fictions got seriously neglected in favor of grades and sleep. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the ending!

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Chapter 3

When Sherlock first awoke, he looked confused, a rare expression for him. John didn't think it sat well on his features, normally all-knowing in their vanity. But then the fleeting look was gone, and the first words out of his lips to John were that he wanted to be discharged. John looked at him sideways before saying that the doctors had not yet given him clearance. When Doctor Trevor finally came in to see him, he was pleased that Sherlock was finally awake. The pleasure didn't last long, as Sherlock quickly spelled out his failing marriage and soon-to-be estrangement from his son that he was not spending enough time with because he volunteered extra time at the hospital. Off-put and caught off guard, Dr. Trevor had left the room without much of an examination of Sherlock's condition. Sherlock barely flinched, only tore off the sensors on his chest and asked John where his clothes were.

John, a little more used to Sherlock's blunt methods of deduction, was less phased by his tactics. He refused to let Sherlock discharge himself until he, at the very least, was satisfied that Sherlock was well enough to go home. Begrudgingly, Sherlock sat back down on his bed and waited for John to examine him. Feeling satisfied, John allowed him to get dressed and discharge himself from the hospital. They hailed a cab and went home to Baker Street.

When Sherlock took the stairs up and entered through the door into the kitchen and not the living room, John knew that was signaling a shut-in to his room whereupon he would not emerge for days. He tried to run past him to block his way but the lanky git was behind his door in three strides and locking it closed behind him before John had the chance.

"Sherlock," He called, "Sherlock, can we not do this, this time? Please?" He heard the muffled sounds of a body clambering atop a mattress. "Sherlock, please, can we talk? I think we should talk about this." No response. John shifted his weight nervously from side to side, his left hand beginning to tremble. He stood outside the door for another minute with nothing but silence echoing between them. Finally, he sighed. "Alright. I'll leave you alone. Call me if you need anything. But Sherlock, please don't shut me out, alright? I'm not angry. I'm really not. I just want to help you." As he was walking away, he decided to call one last thing over his shoulder.

"Please don't push me away."

On the other side of that door, once John was safely outside and hailing a cab to return to his wife and domestic bliss, a single tear escaped the consulting detective's eyes before he locked himself in his mind palace with no desire to ever re-emerge.

[xxx]

The sound of a rectangle no bigger than a deck of cards vibrating against a wood table had no right to sound as menacing or annoying as it did. John grabbed his phone of the nightstand with a groan, and added another when the glaring read face of the clock told him the hour. When he glanced at the display, all inhibition disappeared. He shot up in bed, silently thankful that Mary wasn't resting on his chest anymore but facing the wall, as the action would have woken her up. The short message on his screen made his blood run cold.

Baker Street. Please Come. SH

It was alarmingly similar to a text he'd received only a few nights ago and not a night he wanted to ever live again. He threw on some clothes quickly and rushed out the door without even a word to Mary. No need to wake her and make her worry any more. He'd eventually told her that Sherlock had been in hospital, though left out exactly why. It was enough on its own to make her worried.

Once again he arrived at Baker Street in record time. He entered the building with a little more care than last time though, not wanting to rouse Mrs. Hudson at such an inhumane hour. He ascended the first flight of stairs quietly before bounding up the second and bursting into the flat.

"Sherlock?" He called, failing at keeping the concern from his voice.

"Bedroom," Came the response, almost inaudible from John's position. Turning on his heels, John made for the detective's bedroom. The door was still shut, so he gave a warning knock before entering.

"Sherlock?" He called again, quieter this time. The detective was laying on his bed in his pajamas, body over the blankets and legs crossed at the ankles, fingers steepled under his chin in his signature thinking pose. John was unaccustomed to seeing him in his pajamas without a dressing gown flowing around him, but they were all hung neatly in the open wardrobe, along with his Spencer Hart jackets and dress clothes. "You okay?" He finally asked when no sound came from the detective.

Still no response. John clenched and unclenched his left fist to keep it from shaking. "Sherlock? You texted me at half four in the morning to please come, I'm assuming it's important. Are you alright?" He saw the detective's jaw clench, saw him swallow, but still no response. Doctor Watson emerged then. He stepped over to the edge of the bed and reached for one of Sherlock's frail wrists to take his pulse. "Sherlock, answer me: did you use again?"

"No," came the stern response. His pulse rate, however, suggested otherwise: one hundred and fourteen beats per minute; elevated, but not verging on dangerous yet.

"Your pulse is high," John commented. Sherlock yanked the offending wrist away.

"Sherlock, we've been through this before; whatever you took, I won't be angry. Just let me get you help before your pulse gets any higher."

"It ever occur to you, doctor, that my pulse rate is high because of nerves, and not a stimulant?"

The word 'doctor' was sneered with such contempt that John was genuinely offended for a moment. But he put his phone back in his pocket after a beat. "Why are you nervous?" He asked cautiously.

"Trying to formulate the proper way to communicate my thoughts."

John couldn't help the half smile that tugged at his lips. "You? Thinking before you speak? Well, this will definitely be worth the wait." He made to go grab the chair by the wardrobe, but a hand caught his wrist before he could take a step towards it. When he looked down at Sherlock, he appeared to not have moved at all; his eyes were still closed and his left hand was still perched against his face, but the right had closed in a death grip around John's carpals. "I'm just pulling up a chair," John explained.

"Stay," was Sherlock's retort. Grudgingly, John opted to sit on the side of the bed instead. The hand that had caught him returned to its place resting gently against its twin.

"You called me here to watch you think?" John asked after he watched the clock on the nightstand change three times. He kept his tone light and friendly, but inwardly he was shifty, nervous, and just a little annoyed.

Sherlock's chest heaved in a disgruntled sigh. "I called you here because I assumed I knew what to say. But as soon as I heard you on the steps the words failed me. I do not think this is something I should simply say without premeditation. I'm assuming one miscalculated inflection could cause a severe misinterpretation on your part and result in you either committing me to some god-awful rehabilitation program or walking out that door and never returning. I'm having difficulty deciding which situation sounds worse."

"We don't have to talk about the drugs right now, if you're that worried about it," John offered, "Honestly as long as you let me scour this place for the rest of your stash I'll be okay with putting off the conversation until you're ready for it." John knew, perhaps better than anyone, that Sherlock was not comfortable with conversations that weren't about murder. Talking about himself and his own demons was especially difficult for the detective. He preferred to operate under the assumption that he did not have any because he did not feel. John was not about to force him to talk about something that was clearly difficult for him.

"What I used was the last of it," Sherlock said flatly.

"Mind if I double check that?" John inquired. No response came. John cocked a smile. "Yeah you know I'm going to anyway so there's no point in asking. But if we're agreeing to let that one alone for now, mind if we talk about something different? Just while I'm here."

"And what would you like to talk about?" Sherlock asked with feigned disinterest.

"You kissed me when you were high," John stated calmly. He saw every muscle in Sherlock's body tense. "I'd like to know where that came from."

"I don't even recall it."

"Yes you do," John prodded, "What else could this sulk be about?" Pulling his knees up, Sherlock suddenly turned away from John on the bed to face the wall. "Hey, did I say I was cross? Did I say this ends our friendship or that I was disgusted?"

"You implied it," Sherlock grumbled.

"When did I do that?"

Sherlock's knees drew up further. His spine went rigid. "'I'm not his date,'" He started quoting, and then did not stop, "'I'm not gay,' 'we're not a couple,' 'I am not gay,' 'Greg, for the last time, we're not dating.'" The next time he spoke, his shoulders slumped with the words, and his voice sounded terribly defeated. "'You machine.'"

John winced at the last bitter reminder of his own disregard for Sherlock's feelings. "Sherlock, I didn't mean-"

"Yes you did. You've made your opinion on the matter quite clear, John. You would never consider a relationship with a man because you are very confidently heterosexual. You have never and will never return my sentiments because I live a life routed in cold hard fact, dismissive of all that is emotional and feeling because it serves me no merit. I apologize for putting you in a situation where your heterosexual lifestyle was marginally compromised but rest assured you may delete the action from your memory for I expect nothing to ever come of it. I'm currently trying to do the same."

"Sherlock," John gasped, bewildered. "Hold on, is that honestly what you think? How... How can you think that I think so little of you? Do you honestly believe I see you as some unfeeling, soulless bastard? What I said to you in Bart's lab was one of the biggest mistakes of my life and that statement haunted me every day after you left because I thought that those were the last words that I ever said to you face to face but Sherlock, you of all people must know that that's not how I really feel. How could you even-"

"Why did you marry her?" Sherlock shouted, and sat up in a flash, sliding off the bed and screaming at John from the other side with a grace John could only envy. "I left for two years for you and came back only to discover that you had thrown in your lot with some woman whom you barely know and were striving for some sort of normal life? Honestly, John? A house in the suburbs and a spring wedding and a chapel and monthly get-togethers with friends? What's next? Joining the neighbourhood watch? None of this suits you!"

John just stared at him, then considered and filtered his words carefully. "…What do you mean you left for two years for me?" He asked calmly. It was difficult, but he knew he needed to keep a check on his anger. A hysterical Sherlock was only dismissive of anger, and if this turned into a shouting competition, he would lose; Sherlock always knew where to best strike if he felt threatened. It was better to just let him have it out than challenge him.

Sherlock actually made an "argh!" noise as he grabbed at his curls. But then he sat down on the bed again, his back to John, and the fight just left his form. His arms drooped, still attached to his head by his hands, his shoulders sagging and his head hanging. "Just go, John." He sounded utterly defeated as his hands dropped to his lap.

"No," John said firmly, and stood to walk around the bed to kneel in front of his friend. "Sherlock, no. Not this time. This time you're going to tell me what the hell you were doing for two years. This time we're going to talk about this like the mature adults we've somehow convinced the rest of the world we are. You and me, right now. If this conversation lasts into the morning I'll call in sick to work, I don't care. This: you and me, this is more important to me. You are more important to me, Sherlock. I care about you and right now I'm concerned about you. So we're going to talk and you're going to get this weight off your chest and let go of whatever's making you so upset."

When Sherlock looked up from underneath his wild curls, his eyes were red and glossy. He was fighting tears. John offered him an encouraging smile, and sat down on the bed beside him. "Now tell me from the beginning, when you first went up to the roof. I cut you off last time."

So Sherlock did. He explained every last detail, all thirteen escape possibilities, which John sat through patiently because he recognized that Sherlock was most comfortable with logistics. He explained Moriarty's game, the suicide, the three snipers fixed on John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. He explained how he did it, and he confessed that his reasons for keeping his survival a secret were not because he did not trust John to keep it, but because he feared John would try to find him. It was safer for John to remain behind in London because where Sherlock was going would most certainly get him killed in his narrow sighted craving for danger. Sherlock couldn't risk John jumping into the fray without proper intel, and tearing down Moriarty's network was going to be a delicate situation. So he faked his death to get ahead of the network and to keep John safe.

He explained the hardships of living on the run for two years, the plans that were executed perfectly and the plans that had a hitch or two. He explained the scars and bruises that John had caught glimpses of on his back when he was changing on a few occasions: kidnappings that led to torture; some of them all part of the plan, some of them not. He explained how it had been the promise of eventually returning to London and to John that kept him going. And he explained his heartbreak upon returning only to discover that John was engaged. That he'd been tossed out onto the street and been expected to just accept that everyone in his life had moved on, how it had really just made him feel expendable. But he had put it all behind him, kept it locked deep down inside, because he was truly happy for John despite his earlier protest, and because that wasn't who he was. He did not get involved with other people's personal lives. But it hurt to see John with someone else and he couldn't explain why. Through most of this, his eyes never met John's.

John was patient with the whole explanation, only offering a few necessary sounds of acknowledgement when appropriate to inform Sherlock that he was listening. When the conversation carried on into the daylight, he called in sick to work just as he promised he would, and left Mary a quick message on her phone telling her that he was sorry but he'd taken the car and she could use the money in his wallet that he'd left behind to get a cab. He knew that would warrant a sit-down talk later, but he refused to think about that right now.

Internally, he was practically screaming. All of this time, nearly every decision Sherlock had made was all for him, to keep him safe and to keep him happy, and he'd acted like the biggest cock in the face of it. Sherlock had been hurting, had been miserable, and he hadn't even seen it. He was supposed to be able to see through Sherlock's barriers the way Sherlock was able to read a corpse. He had even quoted John as being able to read a human being the way Sherlock could read a crime scene, but how good could he really be with people if he hadn't been able to see that the one person that mattered the most to him on this Earth was hurting? And all because of him?

"So," John finally said when Sherlock's stream of consciousness broke, "So, the other night, when you relapsed, that… Was that because of me?" Sherlock couldn't meet his eyes. "When you were high, you said that you couldn't get my voice out of your head. That my voice kept reminding you that you'd lost me to someone else. Is it…" He swallowed thickly, "…Is all this my fault?"

"No," Sherlock said with resolve.

"Sherlock," John pushed, "Did you or did you not overdose because I've been a shit friend lately?"

"It was my decision. My poor judgement. Not yours."

"Yeah and I'm sure that's the exact kind of bullshit that your brother fed you when you were younger too, that everything wrong with you is your fault, right?"

"Isn't it?" Sherlock snapped, meeting his eyes.

"No," John said with just as much resolve as Sherlock had previously. Sherlock's lips parted, like he was going to make a snappy retort, but they closed again, and he looked away.

"I'm sorry that I hurt you," John said, "And I'm sorry that I made you think you could never tell me the truth. Sherlock I am so genuinely sorry about the way I behaved and the way I was so dismissive of your feelings. I'm not saying that heroin is a reasonable way to deal with those feelings but I'm saying that you have to deal with it alone, either. This, what you're feeling, is not your fault."

"I can't make it stop," Sherlock whispered brokenly.

"Make what stop?" John asked soothingly.

"These feelings… For you, I mean," the detective clarified. "I've tried. They're very persistent. Purging my emotions had never been difficult until I met you."

John smiled and rested a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "They don't have to be a bad thing."

"Too little, too late. They're useless now."

"And why is that?"

"Because I didn't get to you in time. I lost, John."

"Did you?"

Sherlock looked up then, and was met with John's beaming smile. The hand on his shoulder moved to cup his face. Sherlock's eyes darted to it in alarm, then back to John's face to hold his gaze. Slowly, John started to lean forward. Right before their lips made contact, Sherlock pulled back. "Don't," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm afraid I won't be able to stop."

John laughed against his mouth. "And that's a bad thing?"

"It is when I didn't give you that ring."

The look on John's face made it apparent he'd all but forgotten about his marriage. But then it smoothed away quickly, like he'd made a decision. "Sherlock," he said carefully, "How much do you remember about when you kissed me?"

"I remember pulling you towards me," Sherlock said, "And I remember making contact."

"Do you remember me kissing back?"

Sherlock's eyes widened, and his pupils dilated marginally. "N-no."

John smiled again, flashing his teeth. "We've been dancing around each other since we met. And that was completely my fault. I was the one who was so stubbornly 'not gay' that I couldn't even see what was right in front of me: we may not have exchanged rings, but with how much time we spent in one another's company, the way we lived our lives to specifically inhabit one another, the casual grace with which we both eventually were able to use the mirror and go about our morning routines while the other was in the shower, we've pretty much been married since the day we met. I mean I shot a man for you within twenty four hours of knowing you and then you asked me to move in with you. We're the most unconventional couple I've ever heard of but we've been a couple this whole time, and it took me until you kissing me to get over myself and realize it. I don't think all of those times I called myself straight and had sex with women are suddenly void, and I still don't feel gay, but that doesn't mean I can't be in love with you, you absolute madman. So for once in your life actually be the selfish bastard everyone in the world takes you for and kiss me. We'll work out the logistics later. Just do this for me, okay?"

"If I do this I'm not sure I'll be letting you walk out that door again," Sherlock mumbled honestly, leaning forward half an inch.

John took fistfuls of the taller man's nightshirt. "Lucky for you I am in no condition to drive again."

He closed the distance between their lips at long last, and, for the first time, actually felt the speed of Sherlock's thought processes: tensing in alarm, processing John's words for sincerity, then complete surrender as he melted in to the doctor's lips. Wrapping one arm around John's stockier frame, Sherlock pulled himself tight against John, leaving nothing between them. John, in response, moved one of his hands to frame Sherlock's face and the other to his shoulder for balance. He could feel the detective's breaths ghosting against his skin, becoming more and more shallow as the kiss transitioned from chaste and innocent to passionate.

John tentatively licked at Sherlock's bottom lip, a silent request for more. The tension in Sherlock's shoulder blades betrayed his uncertainty. John just waited, not about to force anything on his friend. After a few more slides of lips against lips, Sherlock opened his mouth a little wider, granting John access. After a moment's pause, John licked his way into Sherlock's mouth, tasting and touching and feeling intently. He felt the detective's breath catch as he fumbled to match John's tempo. The shorter man stroked one of Sherlock's cheekbones in assurance; It's alright, he thought, it's all fine. Just let me lead for once. Sherlock relaxed into the touch, and let his mouth be explored by John's probing tongue, opting to observe and learn rather than keep up. The turn of tables must have been overwhelming for the detective, normally superior in knowledge and ability to everyone else, but not entirely unpleasant, if the little sounds slipping past his lips every time they broke to reseal told John anything. He couldn't keep a sheepish grin from tugging at his own lips as he snogged the detective senseless.

A slight burn in his chest told John that at some point, he had forgotten to breathe. He broke away to catch his breath, leaning his forehead against Sherlock's. The detective panted with him, his face flushed and pupils blown wide. When John glanced up at him, the taller man's eyes were flicking left and right, unfocused, as if reading text that John could not see.

"Alright?" John asked, straightening his back a little. Sherlock moved with him, still largely bent over himself, but he still did not focus. "Sherlock?" John whispered.

"Compiling," Sherlock responded after a beat.

"What sort of relevant data could you honestly have received from a kiss?"

"You prefer to be the dominant partner in a new relationship while you're still finding your footing with the person but the more comfortable you get with them the more submissive you become. Your trust issues stem back to your childhood, they are not simply a product of war, and this plays a role in your need to be in control until you can trust your partner not to betray you."

Grinning, John took his shoulders and guided him down to lay on his back, settling beside him. "I think you've given me enough information I didn't know about myself for one week."

"It was a subconscious awareness."

"Doesn't count."

"Your first girlfriend was a woman you met at university."

"Compile silently. I'm trying to sleep." He sighed contentedly and settled further into his pillow, smiling at the scent of Sherlock surrounding him on all sides. It was a subtle scent, one that he had learned to associate with both danger and security over the years.

He felt the detective hum from above him. "It's just occurring to me that you were likely asleep when I texted you."

"Good deduction, that."

"John?" The soldier hummed in attention. "This is all…"

"New to you?" John looked up and smiled at him. "I deduced as much."

"I was going to say it's all a bit 'not good.' What are you going to tell Mary? And don't say you're not going to. That woman is unusually perceptive when it comes to lies."

John's smile faltered. "I wasn't planning on lying. I just… Need to work it all out first, y'know? None of this was particularly expected." He waited until Sherlock met his gaze. "But not at all unwanted. We'll figure it out, Sherlock. We always do."

"I always do. I always have a plan. I never planned for this."

Taking his hand, John brought Sherlock's knuckles to his lips. He felt the detective shudder. "I guess you're just going to have to work with me then. Think you can manage letting me help with the plan for once?"

Sherlock's hand broke free of John's grip to rest on his cheek. "I do trust you, John," he said seriously, "I've always trusted you. In the past the best way to guarantee your safety was to know and control all of the variables, and that often required keeping you in the dark. It had nothing to do with mistrust." His eyes narrowed marginally, a playful look suddenly marking his features. "And I quickly deciphered you rather preferred it that way."

Returning Sherlock's playful look, he covered the hand on his face with his own. "Only you could know someone better than they know themselves. I trust you too, Sherlock. God knows why, but I do. We'll figure this out. But for now, I'm well knackered. So let's sleep on it, yeah?"

"You know I've no intentions of sleeping."

John snorted as he lay down again. "Meditate, go to your mind palace, whatever you call those trances you put yourself in instead of sleeping."

Sherlock inched closer to John as he settled again, eyes sweeping over his features. "You have an oral fixation."

"I thought I told you to keep your observations to yourself."

"I've always found that difficult to do around you. Your praises are rather addicting."

"I could smack you for it from now on."

"I didn't detect any suggestions of enjoying pain play in your kisses."

John giggled. "Don't make me throttle you again." His sleepy voice dripped with affection.

Sherlock smiled. "You also harbor strong affections for me."

John blinked up at him. "Yes," he said confidently. He smiled fondly as Sherlock's cheeks colored at the affirmation, then let his eyes flutter closed again, quickly falling asleep.

"I as well… for you… I mean that they are… That I do…"

John cut him off with a quick peck to the detective's lips. Were he not so tired he would have beamed at being the only person capable of making Sherlock Holmes trip over his words with affection. "I know."

Sherlock watched him drift to sleep, and watched him long after, as the angle of light pouring in from the only window changed, causing new shadows to fall over John's peaceful features, giving him new angles of light to analyze and decide which were his favorites. Always too concerned to allow himself to indulge in such sentiments, now he did so gladly, happy to have John as a willing subject. Despite all of the information he still had to pour over and sort away in John's room in his mind palace, he could not tear his thoughts away from one sentence, dancing around his cerebral cortex in glorious celebration: John Watson loves me.

He had never smiled so genuinely in his life.

[xxx]

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