The final chapter. Sorry for the wait...

Warning: mild swearing

The disruption device had been programmed to shut down automatically, which it eventually did. The black hole field went down soon after that, leaving the occupants of the room in a stunned silence. All bonds snapped back in place, and Damian Melford was the first to react, rising gingerly from the floor and shaking his head, his expression puzzled. As a gifted one, he had no trouble registering all the changes which transpired during the recent artificially created lockdown; however, his attempt to issue a warning was thwarted by another equally strong and gifted player in the room.

Sherlock was up and out of his chair in a blink of an eye, whirling towards Norton and launching a brute physical attack. The banker struggled furtively as he was pulled to his feet, spun around and taken into a merciless chokehold.

"No!" Damian screamed, lunging forward in a useless attempt to prevent the inevitable.

Sherlock turned his head towards the PA, teeth bared in a predatory grin, and then, repositioning his arms, snapped Norton's neck with a flick of his wrists.

The gained momentum brought Damian closer to the cold-blooded murderer whom Sherlock has just shockingly and unexpectedly become.

"You had a chance to poke around in my mind, my dear Melford," the younger Holmes said calmly, letting go of Norton's lifeless body. "You knew how it all was supposed to end."

The PA looked at him and then at the body on the floor. "Yes," he said quietly. "I knew. But you missed something important, and that was your biggest mistake… Maybe even two mistakes, to be exact."

"How interesting," Sherlock's – or, rather, Norton's, - voice was mockingly patient. "Am I supposed to ask what do you mean by that?"

"You can," Damian agreed. "But more effective way would be just to check the condition of your new host's brain."

Norton wordlessly raised his eyebrows, and Melford shrugged his shoulders, not bothering to elaborate.

Right at that moment their silent conversation was interrupted by the older Holmes, who, after groaning softly, made an attempt to get up from the floor. He wasn't left on his own in this task: Barlow and Lestrade, who were also conscious, lent him their support at once. They didn't notice the change at first; only when all three of them were finally standing, did Stanley take a look at Mycroft's eyes. Alarmed, the sandy-haired doctor stepped away and tugged at Greg's sleeve. The DI frowned at him in puzzlement, then glanced around and, spotting the drastic change in their host, narrowed his eyes.

"Now isn't the right time for special effects, Mycroft," Lestrade murmured, taking a quick look at the situation across the room. "We need a plan."

Mycroft blinked, a slight frown creasing his forehead, but a moment later his face cleared. "Oh," he said softly. "You are referring to the coloring my presence causes. Apologies for that, but it's the only thing I'm unable to do anything about."

"Again with the cryptic talk," Greg shook his head. "Shifter, isn't it?"

Mycroft's lips curved into a slight smile. "Not exactly, my dearest Gregory, but the creature you're referring to is also there. We were soulmates before; now we are the one."

Greg opened his mouth, thought better about it and groaned in despair. "Just what the hell did I do to deserve all of this?" he mumbled unhappily and then went silent.

The older Holmes nodded in approval and turned to access the situation which his brother was currently in. It took him merely a second to understand what was going on, and then he casually joined the conversation. "I remember telling you once that every plan should be well-thought and all probabilities accounted," he clicked his tongue in disapproval. "You'll never learn."

"Look who is talking," Norton-Sherlock bared his teeth. "You had tricked your soulmate into doing a dirty job for you, and now, when he is suffering the consequences, you are playing savior and taking over his life."

The new version of Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "You also kept your manner of judging people strictly by your standard. Another crucial mistake."

"But I have your vessel's most precious little brother under control," Norton seemed not to pay any attention to what his adversary was saying. "We are not so different after all, Shifter. If it is still your name."

"Yes, it is," the older Holmes confirmed. "And your assistant is right, by the way: you should've checked young Sherlock's condition. His brain, to be exact. But I have to warn you – you are not going to like it."

Norton flashed him a predatory grin and closed his eyes. Mycroft shook his head and turned to look at Barlow and Lestrade.

"My work here is concluded," he announced, his voice sounding tired. "Stanley, Gregory, if you be so kind as to accompany me, it would be greatly appreciated."

Barlow shifted from foot to foot, looking at John's motionless form in hesitation. "But sir…"

"A noble aspiration, Doctor Barlow, but unfortunately there's nothing you can do for your patient now," the older Holmes turned to look at his possessed brother again. "None of us can, as a matter of fact. We fulfilled our roles, now it's Sherlock's turn to finish this play."

The DI took a step closer to Mycroft, patting Stanley's arm on the way. "He is right, Stanley. Time for us to go and let Sherlock solve everything, as he always does."

"Thank you, Gregory," Mycroft turned and headed toward the door. "By the way, there's something I need to discuss with you in private, and it's urgent, Detective Inspector."

"Sure thing," the DI shrugged his shoulders. "But how about your private place being somewhere nearby, in case Sherlock would need some help?"

Slowing down and then stopping completely, the older Holmes looked over his shoulder. "Don't worry, Gregory, all we need is to cross the corridor. As for you, Stanley, it would be reasonable to stay in the doctors' lounge. Something tells me your services will be required quite soon."

"Well, in that case I should be ready, shouldn't I?" the sandy-haired doctor took his last look first at Sherlock, then at John, and left the room without a backward glance.

Lestrade waited until the moment the door closed behind Stanley, then turned to look at Mycroft, a mischievous smile lighting his face. "Just out of curiosity: you have plans for him too, don't you?"

The older Holmes traded smile for smile. "Contrary to your belief, I don't have a tendency to control everything. Especially when there is someone far better suited for the job."

"Really?" Greg raised his eyebrows. "And who that someone might be?"

"Take a guess, my dear Gregory," Mycroft turned and headed to the door. "I'm sure you can figure it out on your own."

The DI frowned but followed the older Holmes, puzzling his words over. There were six people in the castle now, and only he and Stan had no connection with the whole supernatural background. Well, in his case that sort of wasn't true, but still, as far as everything went, the two of them were ordinary people. So who could have been interested in making Stanley Barlow not so ordinary?

There wasn't really a lot of deducing to do: with Mycroft, Sherlock and John sort of already engaged, only Damian Melford remained on his own, although Lestrade could recall the Shifter's words about Norton's PA getting the short end of the stick in this whole bonding thing. So Damian was hurt, and there was only one man in their small company who dedicated his life to helping those who suffered.

Besides, Melford and Barlow seemed to know each other, so the choice was logical.

'Bravo, Gregory,' Mycroft's mental voice sounded in his head, causing the DI to nearly collide with the owner of said voice, who now stood in the middle of the corridor, looking at him with those weird sky-blue eyes. 'My sincerest apologies, dear Gregory, I didn't mean to startle you.'

Lestrade took a step back, shaking his head. 'My fault. I still can't come to grips with this whole telepathy thing. But I'm a quick learner, so give me a couple days – and you won't be disappointed.'

'Quite a statement, Detective Inspector,' the older Holmes clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back and forth on his heels once. 'You managed to come to some conclusions, I see. Care to enlighten me?'

'We both know that I'm not going to say anything new, but if you don't mind..,' the DI began, only to be interrupted in the most polite manner.

'Not at all,' Mycroft's voice sounded in his mind, warm and soft. 'Do tell.'

'When I was sharing my body with John, he let me see into his mind,' Lestrade began. 'There was a conversation between him and Sherlock when we arrived here, concerning you calling me by first name. Sherlock surmised you were going to make an offer to me. You did, the next day.'

'And you turned me down,' Mycroft replied, his strange eyes shining brightly.

'Well..,' Greg looked down and then locked gazes with the older Holmes again. 'I had time to think it trough. I accept your offer and everything that comes with it.'

'Brave and courageous,' the older man's smile was equal in warmth with his shining eyes. 'If this question appears to be settled, let us proceed to the next stage. Follow me, please. We'll be more comfortable in the command centre, I believe.'

'The command centre?' Lestrade's eyebrows made a swift climb towards his hairline. 'You have the command centre in your..,' he paused and shook his head. 'Never mind.'

'There are a lot of things you don't know about me yet, dear Gregory,' turning around, Mycroft headed to the door. 'But we'll work on it.'

'Yes, about that,' the DI remained where he stood, shifting from foot to foot in uncertainty. 'We are going to bond, I suppose?'

The older Holmes stopped and turned to look at him. 'Correct. Is it a problem?'

There was a sudden mischievous spark in Lestrade's eyes, and, squaring his shoulders, he took a step forward. 'None at all, but I should warn you: I have some secrets too.'

'I suspected you would,' turning again, Mycroft crossed the rest of the distance to the door and opened it. 'There's a great thing about secrets – they make life far more interesting, don't you agree?' with that, he disappeared into the room.

The DI's lips curved into a trademark boyish grin. "You have absolutely no idea," he murmured, hurrying after his soon-to-be soulmate into the room and closing the door…

Meanwhile in the intensive care room…

As soon as Mycroft with his escort left the room, Norton, with his eyes still closed, swayed and brought a hand to his face. It touched something warm and wet, and he frowned, pulling his hand away and looking at his fingers which were smeared with blood.

"I warned you, but you didn't listen," firmly taking his boss by the arm, Damian pulled him towards the chair. The psychic stumbled along, too disoriented from pain to resist, and allowed Melford to sit him down.

"Well done on picking a perfect moment to kill me, Damian," Norton hissed through clenched teeth, his eyes narrowed and full of hatred. Blood now run in thick rivulets down his chin, staining the white shirt, but he paid no attention to that.

Melford sighed and shook his head, his dark eyes full of sadness and compassion. "That's the main difference between us, sir – I'm not addicted to revenge and power. Besides," he made a sharp turn on his heels and glanced back over his shoulder, "there's no need for me to do anything at this point: you basically initiated a self-destruct when you took young Sherlock over. Good luck in figuring a way of getting yourself out of this mess," he strolled out of the room without a backward glance, paying no attention to Norton's pained growl of 'Where do you think you're going?' Time was running short: Damian could feel Sherlock's pain seeping through the link and intensifying with every second. It was hard enough to cope with, and the PA was just a third party; for John and Sherlock it must have been an absolute nightmare. Regrettably, Melford couldn't do anything to help; moreover, he needed to find solution to his own problem, or he was as good as dead too.

He didn't have a lot of options: Mycroft Holmes clearly showed his intentions towards DI Lestrade, so this variant was out. Which left Stanley Barlow, who, as Damian remembered, should now be waiting in the doctor's lounge, wherever it might be. Now, it was time to find him.

When Melford and Barlow met for the first time, Damian created a neural link between them – purely for practice and partly as the means to contact the physician in case of emergencies. The current situation, in Melford's opinion, could surely be considered as one, so he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and reached into his mind, activating the link.

'Stanley, it's me, Damian. Where are you now?'

To say that Barlow was surprised to hear Melford's voice in his head was to say nothing. Alarmed, he shot up from the chair, stumbled and barely managed to grab a hold of the table to the left of him to stop himself from falling face first onto the floor.

"Dam?" he blurted, looking around in confusion. "What the hell?"

'Just tell me where are you, there's no time to waste,' there was pain in Damian's voice. 'I'll explain everything later.'

"I'm in a room next to one we all were in,' the sandy-haired doctor said promptly. "But…"

'Hold on, I'm coming in,' Melford interrupted, and a moment later the door to the room opened, admitting a bit worse for wear looking Damian.

Stanley's eyes widened. "No offense, Dam, but you look like shit."

"None taken," Melford flashed him a rather tired but still infectious smile. "Though I must admit that it's the case of feeling better than looking. No reason to worry, Stan."

The sandy-haired doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Can't help it, Dam. Worrying about people's wellbeing is pretty much my job description. So… what's happened?"

Melford looked around, spotted an armchair behind Barlow's back (to the left of one the doctor recently vacated), and headed straight to it. "What did you manage to learn about the concept of soulmates so far, Stan?"

Barlow followed his example, reclaiming the armchair. "Can't say that I found much. Why?"

Turning in his direction, Damian reached out and placed his hand on Stan's arm. "I'm willing to provide you with a food for thought in regard of that topic, if you are ready to consider an offer I'm about to make."

Barlow looked at Damian's hand on his arm, eyebrows furrowing. "What kind of an offer?"

The PA brought his other hand into action, reaching out again and entwining their fingers. "I would be honoured to accept you as my soulmate, if you are interested in such an experience."

Stanley tilted his head to the right, looking at Damian with his usual warm, open smile. "Sure. As long as I'm not expected to speak in this… upper crust manner. "

Melford frowned in confusion. "Upper crust? What do you..," he paused, face brightening, "Oh, of course. Sorry about that. I tend to speak like that when I'm nervous."

"That's good to hear," Stan gave Damian's fingers a slight squeeze. "Although I'm more than willing to master the skill of a proper talk if you're not averse to teaching me."

Melford raised his eyebrows. "Not much for me to teach, apparently. You're doing great on your own. Being a soulmate, on the other hand, there I can definitely give you some pointers as to how the whole thing works."

"Now that's an offer I simply can't refuse," Barlow flashed him a wide grin. "One suggestion, though: I'm a practical man, so can we do the learning en route?"

"Agreed," Damian pulled his hand out of Stan's grasp and rose from the armchair. "Let's get comfortable – I'm about to create a mental and physical link between us, and sometimes it can be a bit tiring."

"Sure," Barlow got up too. "Sofa?"

"Excellent choice," Damian walked to the sofa and sat down. "Now all you need to do is settle in, relax and let me do the rest of the work."

The sandy-haired doctor obeyed without hesitation, and allowed Melford to place his hands on his chest and forehead. "Can we go and help Sherlock afterwards?"

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it, okay?" Damian took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Now shush, and let me work."

"Sorry," Stanley closed his eyes and promptly broadcasted the image of Sherlock into Damian's mind, causing the PA to sigh in exasperation.

"Alright, fine, the first thing we'll do afterwards is go and help Sherlock," Melford growled. "Now shut the hell up and try not to think at all…"

The man in question, however, was determined to solve his problem without anyone's help, so, using the fact that Norton was more than out of shape, he tore apart the shield that held him captive, and pulled them both into the dreamscape.

They ended up on a jagged cliff over a stormy sea: Norton – on the ground, curled into a ball, his nose and ears bleeding, and Sherlock – sitting nearby, cross-legged and pointedly NOT looking at his adversary. He was bleeding too, but managed to stem the flow with the handkerchief.

'You are desperate to kick me down from this cliff right now, I imagine,' Norton sneered, wiping the blood with the cuff of his shirt. 'There's a minor problem of me taking you along, of course, but it's just a small inconvenience in comparison to the fact of you getting rid of me once and for all.'

'Getting a taste of your own medicine, aren't you, Norton?' Sherlock bared his teeth in a grin. 'Must be really messing with your mind if you are willing to trade your conquering plans for death.'

'Who says I'm not making some profit out of it?' Norton matched him grin for grin. 'I'm dying, taking you with me, and your precious John follows us to the dark beyond. Neat, don't you think?'

'Ish,' Sherlock wriggled his eyebrows. 'There's a small flaw in your plan, and, given that usually you're quite thorough, I'm surprised you'd overlooked it.'

'Really?' the banker sneered. 'Care to enlighten me about this flaw?'

'Your precious empire,' the younger Holmes elaborated. 'You probably have some backup plan in case of emergencies, but did you take your PA into account? Because if you are no more, he can easily take your corporation over.'

'It is entirely possible,' Norton confirmed, getting comfortable. 'But, considering that I will be dead, would it matter for me what fate befalls my creation?'

Sherlock did his best to keep his expression neutral, but behind the façade was absolute turmoil. Norton's reaction was unexpected; not shockingly so, but Sherlock didn't anticipate the psychic's intention to give up his life's work so easily.

'Interesting turn of the events, isn't it?' Norton smirked, tilting his head to the right. 'It never occurred to any of you that I may have a death wish, and appoint you as a weapon of my destruction.'

'On the contrary,' Sherlock kept his voice neutral, but his mind was working overtime. He needed to persuade Norton to heal John. It was the only thing that mattered, and if Sherlock succeeded in accomplishing that, he was ready to sacrifice himself. Mycroft and the Shifter could help John after that. Their mentor was wise enough to handle that; and Mycroft, in turn, could take a good care of John afterwards.

'I can hear you, you know,' Norton remarked conversationally. 'And, to tell the truth, I could never understand the ones like you. You are too rational to give in to sentiments, and yet, when it comes to matters concerning your significant one, all your rationality goes out of the window. Why? What's so special about John?'

Sherlock felt his lips stretching into a grin. 'Quite a question from the man who is adept at using people as means to reach his goals. You are bound to have a firm grasp of human psychology, if you are really who you are claim to be.'

'Hmm..,' there was a dangerous spark in the banker's eyes, and he got up, dusting his suit. 'I may as well go and find out myself. How's that for an answer?'

Sherlock was up and in Norton's face in a flash. 'Don't you dare!' he hissed, eyes murderous. 'Or I…'

'Or you what?' the psychic scowled. 'Look at yourself! All emotional and not an ounce of common sense. I'm starting to seriously have doubts about my decision to keep you alive. Your remarkable brain cells appear to be flooded by emotions, and right now that's absolutely unacceptable.'

'Oh, really?' Sherlock jerked his head up, looking at Norton with disdain. 'Well, that's unfortunate, because last time I checked, you were stuck with me. Permanently. So… Be afraid, Norton. Be VERY afraid.'

Sighing in exasperation, Norton drew back his right arm and knocked Sherlock out with a calculated hit to the younger Holmes' left temple. "As if," he smirked, turning on his heels and dropping out of the dreamscape.

Taking a moment to get his bearings, Norton rose from the armchair and went to John's bed. Sherlock's soulmate was conscious and tried to smile, but the pain transformed his smile into a mismatched grimace. The banker grinned in return… and then proceeded to burn the construct in John Watson's brain, making sure that John remembered every painful second of that process.

John couldn't even scream – he wheezed, chocking on his own blood, his body trashing on the bed, hands clawing for purchase and not finding any on the smooth sheets.

Norton's last strike was the epitome of pain, and John finally passed out, body going limp on tangled sheets.

The psychic took a step back, admiring his handiwork. "We will see who is going to be afraid, young Sherlock," he murmured in satisfaction. "However it turns out, you or me going to have a lot of fun starting from scratch and winning John Watson over."

He walked slowly back and forth across the room, preparing for what was about to come. He had no idea how it was going to end, but he knew one thing for certain: he was going to let the situation sort itself out. If he were to survive, he would see it as an added bonus; if he were to die… well, then it was his fate. He made all necessary arrangements before leaving London: his finances, his network, his whole corporation – it was all taken care of, and everything was in the right hands. But those were just the details, smaller parts of the bigger picture.

He left the safety and comfort of his mansion in London for only one reason: he was bored. Bored with his perfectly organised life, hating every second of it. Suffocating in his neat mansion, dying bit by bit from the inside. To see the world through the eyes of another, to start everything anew... Oh, what an adventure it might turn to be...

Taking a deep breath, he walked to the armchair and sat down. He was ready.

The wind hit him with full force, making him shiver and pull his suit coat tighter around himself. Sherlock was still sprawled on the ground, unconscious, and Norton knelt beside him, reaching out and placing his hand on the younger Holmes' forehead. The younger man's reaction came a few seconds later: he opened his eyes first, and pulled away second, slipping out from under the banker's palm.

Norton waited patiently while Sherlock scrambled to get himself into an upright position, then gracefully rose to his feet.

'Sorry for interrupting our previous conversation so rudely, but I needed to take care of some urgent matters,' the banker explained, crossing his arms on his chest. 'Your precious John is safe, and almost in perfect condition, by the way. And I'm ready to make you an offer.'

Sherlock's eyes flashed with fury, but otherwise he showed no reaction at Norton's words.

'I thought so,' the banker acknowledged. 'Nevertheless, here is my offer: we sort this mess out by jumping off this cliff, and whoever survives, gets the chance to go on with his life. Are you up to that?'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, locking their gazes, and Norton raised his eyebrow, not intimidated even in the slightest. 'Straight off the cliff and the fittest will survive,' the younger Holmes intoned. 'Yes, I'm up to that. Are you?'

Instead of answering, Norton barrelled into him and a moment later they both were flung into the air and plummeted down, the dark surface of the ocean seemingly rushing forward to meet them. Then they were hitting the water and the jagged rocks beneath, and the world went black...

The two newly bonded pairs met in the corridor, looking each other over and acknowledging their respect by curt nods. Mycroft and Damian were practically glowing with satisfaction; Greg and Stanley looked shell-shocked and seemed to gravitate towards each other on pure instinct, giving and receiving so needed support. Their soulmates watched them with fond amusement, but made no attempts to intrude.

Damian made an effort of shifting his gaze away from Stanley, and looked at Mycroft instead. "Everything went as planned?"

"Hmm?" the politician replied absentmindedly, his eyes following Lestrade's every movement. "Ah, yes. Better than I could've hoped. You were equally successful, as I can see."

"Absolutely," Melford confirmed – and here he was again, unable to take his eyes off Barlow's soft smile and shining eyes. "But as much as I appreciate staying in present company, I believe we do have a small matter to settle."

"Certainly," the older Holmes surfaced from his trancelike state and delved right into problem solving. "We are going back to the intensive care room, but keeping Stanley and Gregory behind our backs. They aren't exactly in perfect condition for prompt reactions. Are you up to using the brute force if necessary?"

Lestrade, who appeared to be keeping track of their quiet conversation in addition to having his own with Barlow, turned to look Mycroft straight in the eyes and flashed him a provocative grin. "No offence, Mycroft, but when it comes to brute force, you and Damian are not exactly the ones who fit the description. The same goes for Stanley, by the way. I'll deal with the physical side of the operation; you'll play your mind games. Agreed?"

"I have a feeling that discouraging you would be absolutely pointless," the older Holmes replied politely. "Besides, having you with me is paramount for our bond to form properly. Agreed."

Having decided on the course of action, all four of them strolled towards the room in question, determined to tackle the problem in any way necessary. Mycroft was the first to cross the threshold, accessing the situation and gesturing for the others to proceed with caution. There was no immediate need for the brute force, that one was clear: both men in the room were unconscious and in a bad condition; however, the most vital question remained unanswered.

Who, exactly, were they looking at: Sherlock Holmes or Norman Norton?

Mycroft was ready to address this problem personally, when a small commotion behind his back drew his attention: Damian was all of a sudden catching Stanley by the sleeve and trying to stop the sandy-haired doctor's attempt to rush towards John's bed. The older Holmes could totally understand him: Barlow's purpose in life was to heal and to help, and John was obviously in need of that.

"Let him go, Mister Melford," Mycroft ordered. "Doctor Watson isn't the one we should be afraid of, so Doctor Barlow may as well attend his patient, don't you think?"

"Of course," Damian agreed, letting go of Stanley and even accompanying him. "Be careful, sir."

Nodding in acknowledgement, the older Holmes crossed the room and, stopping in front of his brother's unresponsive form, leaned down, placing his hands on the arms of the chair. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and tapped into the Shifter's abilities.

He hadn't been prepared to the things he saw. Moreover, he seriously doubted that this experience could be softened in any way. If it wasn't for Greg who managed to get to him in time and grab him before he dived face first on top of his younger brother's body, Mycroft would have been terribly embarrassed. Two strong arms wrapped around his torso from behind, and he was hoisted up, his soulmate holding him close and lending support. He briefly wondered if he should be uncomfortable with someone so boldly invading his personal space, but everything felt so right that he pushed his thoughts aside and just leaned back into the embrace, smiling slightly as his partner grunted and adjusted his hold.

Mycroft's smugness, however, didn't last long: there was a quiet curse from Barlow, and they all turned to look at the physician who, at the moment, was too busy trying to thwart John's attempt to sit in his bed.

"He's awake," came Stanley's late warning, and a moment later Damian was at his side, helping to calm John down.

The blond doctor, however, was having none of it – he still tried to fight his way out of Barlow and Melford's restraining grip. His eyes were wide and unfocussed, and when Mycroft pulled out of Greg's embrace and, crossing the distance to the bed, looked into them, he promptly took a step back – the ocean of fear and terror in the darkened depts threatened to swallow him whole.

"Stanley," the older Holmes said firmly, his eyes locking on Melford's and seemingly sending him a silent message. "I think you should help Doctor Watson get some more sleep."

Damian, having received Mycroft's message, rose up and took a step away from the bed, his eyes trained on Sherlock's still form. "Is it true, Mister Holmes? Are you sure? Because if it doesn't, then I don't think…"

"It's true, Mister Melford," Mycroft confirmed. "We have a long way to go, apparently, but I have no doubt we will succeed."

"From your mouth to God's ears," Barlow grumbled, administering the injection and also getting to his feet. "Alright, first things first: we all need rest, and that's an order. Although I would appreciate if somebody could lend me a hand with moving Sherlock into more comfortable position."

Greg and Damian complied with his request, and soon the younger Holmes was resting on the second bed (which, of course, was moved to the far side of the room – just in case). Barlow even bothered to give him a dose of sedative too, - again, just in case.

"Okay, everybody out and straight to their rooms," Stanley ordered. "24 hours of rest, and after that we'll sort everything out. Understood?"

Truth to be told, Barlow didn't expect for his words to have any effect, and was surprised to receive affirmative nods from all members of their company.

"Remarkable, Doctor Barlow," Mycroft praised, starting to shepherd Greg towards the door. "Hold that thought. And see you in 24 hours, gentlemen."

A moment later Melford followed his example, curling his arm around Stanley's waist and towing him along. "Did I tell you how proud of you I am?" he murmured into his solumate's ear. "If not, then I'm telling you that now. Sleep?"

"Not objecting, no. And a lot of other things afterwards."

"Deal."

Mycroft and Greg meanwhile closed the door to the control room and looked at each other.

"Do you have a bed in here?" the DI tried to stifle a yawn. "I'm dead on my feet."

"The hidden door behind the panel in the far left corner of the room. Two beds, actually, in case you are uncomfortable," the older Holmes smiled. "I'll join you shortly – just need to finish something first."

"Okay," Lestrade yawned in earnest and sauntered to the hidden entrance. "We did well, don't you think?"

"Exceptionally," Mycroft confirmed, walking to the command centre. Just a couple of messages and this whole business was over.

Besides, he still had an element of surprise on his side – not for long, of course, but still… It was always good to have an upper hand.

Sherlock closed his eyes as the dark surface got closer. He was ready to die… now, when John was safe, nothing else mattered. John would cope, he had no doubts about it. And Mycroft would deal with Norton. It would not be easy, but he had no choice. He just hoped that John would be able to understand.

Lost in his thoughts, he was totally unprepared to the sensation of two strong arms sliding around his body. His eyes opened wide in time to see Norton managing to flip them about so the banker's body would be the first to hit the water.

'Sorry, young Sherlock, but you aren't going to win,' the banker voice was calm and composed. 'Not this time, not ever. How's that for a happy ending?'

Sherlock didn't have time to reply: right at that moment they plunged into the water and he heard a sickening crunch of Norton's body being bashed against the sharp shards of rocks. He felt one of said shards scraping against the side of his face, and then nothing.

'I'm coming back, John. Wait for me…'

It took him a week. A whole week, which, unbeknownst to him, most of their company were enjoying spending with each other and trying to care for John. The last part was especially problematic, because John was stubbornly shutting everyone out, refusing to talk and, by the look of it, having regular nervous breakdowns by Sherlock's bedside.

Mycroft was moderately busy sorting things out and getting the situation with Norton's empire under control. To their immense surprise, the banker managed to have his last laugh by leaving said empire to his PA. That resulted in quite a row between Damian and Mycroft, which Greg and Stanley took immense pleasure in watching and then finding a peaceful resolution to. Not without Stanley freaking out a bit, though; it's not every day that you find yourself being talked into accepting a position of vice-president in world-wide corporation. Especially when one of the people doing the talking is a bloody British government himself. Poor disoriented Doctor Barlow simply had no chance; but, considering that Damian thoroughly and enthusiastically made it up to him afterwards by taking him to see the most amazing dreamscapes ever imaginable, Stanley had no trouble accepting such an apology.

Greg deigned to have a few shouting matches with Mycroft too: both of them happened to be stubborn to the extreme, and the older Holmes was, in the end, forced to grudgingly accept the fact of Lestrade turning down an offer of a prestigious position in Mycroft's organization - again. Not that the older Holmes was planning to give up so easily: he was a seasoned politician, after all, adept at playing things out to his benefit, and getting everything he wanted by taking it slow. Besides, who said that it couldn't be an enjoyable process for both of them?

So, all in all, the four of them were almost happy and content. Almost.

Happiness is a fragile thing, especially when there is someone being broken and devastated nearby.

They took turns keeping John company, but being around him felt like being near a black hole: he sucked away their energy without even realising it, and some of them were starting to freak out.

Stanley was the first to lose it: he stormed into the intensive care room and got up close and personal with John, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and jerking him up.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he yelled, shaking the blond doctor up for emphasis. "And don't you dare to shut me out this time, because that sure as hell isn't happening!"

John just gave him a blank look and then closed his eyes.

Infuriated, Stan let him go and raised his hand to slap him, but then stopped and turned away, shoulders slumping in defeat.

"Sorry," he whispered. "I… I just can't… I'm sorry, John."

"Me too," the voice was hollow and raspy. "I can't feel him, Stan. At all. Our bond… it's gone..," he broke off, a sob finally wrenching his way out of his throat.

Barlow whirled around, eyes terrified. "What?"

"He is… here," John was choking on his words. "He is, not… Norton. That's… all… I feel. Nothing… nothing more. There isn't… anything left. Oh God, Stan… there's nothing… I… What I'm going to do?"

Stan could only watch in horror as John crumpled to the floor, defeated. Then Barlow was crashing down onto his knees, embracing him, and John cried in his arms until his eyes run dry.

"We'll figure something out," he promised, stroking John's tense muscles. "It's not the end, John. We'll get him back."

"There's nothing to figure, Stan," John's voice was once again quiet and hollow. "And he will be back, all right. Just not for me."

"Bullshit," Barlow grumbled emphatically. "You both are too damn stubborn to give up. What if he is playing possum only because he's busy finding the solution? As far as I understand, he has a habit of leaving you out of the loop, after all."

John stiffened in his arms, indignation thrumming through his whole body. "Is it your attempt to take my mind of the matter, Stan? Because it really sucks, I've got to tell you."

"It's working, nevertheless," the sandy-haired doctor objected. "Damian had been teaching me some tricks, you know. Not that I was an amateur myself, mind you."

'Not an amateur, no,' the voice in both their heads was predictably sarcastic. 'But still having much to learn. For example, not being so bloody noisy and distracting when one tries to work.'

John and Stanley both froze then turned simultaneously to look at the bed. 'WHAT?'

'Ow,' Sherlock dropped his head back onto the pillow. 'Some respect for the wounded, please.'

"Oh, you little...," John was wrenching himself out of Stan's embrace and getting to his feet. "Stan, get out. And lock the door. I'm about to have a biggest f***ing conversation in my whole f***ing life. Shut the hell up, Sherlock. Just. Shut. Up."

"Manners," the dark-haired man grumbled under his breath. "Stanley, you'd better go, I really owe him an explanation…"

"Damn right," John was fuming and doing his best not to bash Sherlock's head in right in front of a witness.

"…And tell my brother I need to discuss some matters with him afterwards," Sherlock finished calmly.

The tension in the room was so thick that Barlow shivered from head to toe; but he seriously doubted it had anything to do with the implied verbal sparring. On the contrary… and yes, getting out right now seemed like a good idea.

He beat the fastest retreat in his life… and lo and behold, those three standing in semi-circle near the door and looking properly flustered was a sight he would never regret seeing…

John pointedly took his time, rolling his shoulders and stretching his muscles, all the while never breaking an eye contact with his impossible soulmate. Sherlock watched him with an amused half-smile playing on his lips, comfortable and smug on his bed.

Then John was moving, and Sherlock scooted up, getting into a half-sitting position. He was about to get it, big time. But who said that two couldn't play this game to the mutual pleasure?

A moment later he was in John's arms, and everything else stopped mattering.

"Never again, you hear me?" John's voice was muffled by Sherlock's pyjama top. "And I don't care if you the smartest one. We're in this together, you get me? One more instance of you being all heroic and shutting me out…"

Sherlock's hand wormed his way under John's chin and tilted his head up, coaxing him to look into his soulmate's eyes.

"As if," Sherlock whispered, and a moment later the world around them exploded in a supernova, their bond solidifying and fusing their souls permanently.

They spent some time basking in warm afterglow of their imprinting, although Sherlock could feel John desperately trying to stifle a chuckle.

"What?" he asked lazily in the end, taking pity on his annoyingly restless soulmate – John's mental scrambling was starting to give him a headache.

"Sherlock Holmes, the world's only psychic detective," John intoned. "Better upgrade your business card before we return to London."

Sherlock groaned, thumping his head against the pillow. "You just had to rub it into my face, hadn't you?"

"Don't worry, I'm going to do my best to create a white noise so you would not be able to listen to anyone else's thoughts," his soulmate promised, grinning.

Sherlock looked absolutely terrified by this idea, and John burst out laughing.

"Hold that thought, Sherlock," he hiccupped. "Hold that thought. Did you really think I was going to let that "playing possum" thing slide?"

Sherlock groaned and tried to hide his entire head under the pillow, but John mercilessly tugged the soft barrier away.

"No chance, mate," he said sweetly. "Payback is a bitch, you knew that."

Despite their thrust and parry, both were smiling, cocooned in their little corner of the universe.

"What are we going to do now, Sherlock? Seriously," John asked when his playful mood settled down.

"Live, John," Sherlock said simply. "Live and deal with everything together. Properly using our benefits, of course."

"Sounds like a plan," John smiled, lowering his head back on Sherlock's chest. "As long as I get to punch you for being an idiot on occasions."

"Sounds like a deal," Sherlock replied, closing his eyes and winding his arms around his contented soulmate…

And that's all, folks. Thanks for everyone who had been reading, commenting, following and favouriting this story during all those almost 5 years. You are precious :)