Well you guys; this is it. The last chapter.

This was supposed to be funny...and about Sherlock.

But then it got serious, and focused around John.

Let's just say Sherlock is a Johnsexual and leave it at that.

Hope you enjoy this last chapter~! (I know I did.)

-ooo-

As Close As It Gets

received at 14:30 -

pet, let's meet for some playtime.

xxx

received at 11:29 -

answer my call, john dear.

received at 20:11 -

i have a collar with your name on it, pet.

xxx

received at 23:03 -

he won't play with you. he can't. pet, let me give you what you need.

x

received at 3:12 -

mummy doesn't love you like I do, john dear. i'll show you.

Sherlock closed the inbox of the phone. The texts had been sent randomly throughout the past week and a half, but the doctor had never replied to a single one. The brunette knew what this meant, but found himself wondering when his flat mate would admit it or admit anything, for that matter.

Since the encounter between the three of them, John hadn't spoken a word of Moriarty or his relationship with the man. And despite his "massive intellect," Sherlock Holmes had no idea how to address this issue – had no idea if it even was an issue.

"Welcome home, John," he called, uncharacteristically. This whole ordeal with Moriarty had really put him out of sync with himself. And that in itself pissed him off almost as much as Anderson attempt to sound intelligent. His blond companion trudged up the stairs, several bags from the store in his hands.

"You didn't find your cigarettes again, did you?"

"You still keep them around here?" he murmured with feigned surprise. He knew where they were, had already found them. But John had been clever, for once. The pack was hidden in the doctor's sock drawer, beneath his underwear. It was a place he thought the man would never look, but his sociopath of a friend had found himself checking the drawer on an almost daily basis when John was with Moriarty, because by seeing which pair the good doctor was wearing, he could tell if he planned to see the criminal that day.

"Not anymore I won't," he sighed, striding past him and into the kitchen. Per usual, there was nowhere to set the bags except the floor. And, of course, when the fridge was opened there was hardly any room around the body parts and a bag of…

"Sherlock, is this marijuana?" He snatched it up and stormed out to the detective, his anger already blooming.

"It's for an experiment."

"What sort of bloody experiment? You're not switching one addiction for another. As your doctor-"

"Yes well you're not my doctor, therefore your input is only a suggestion. I will do with my cannabis as I wish," he answered, knowing full well he was aggravating his flat mate. But John simply stood there, bag of weed in hand, his face sorting through its emotions until it found the right one. Exasperation.

"Tell me…tell me you're not doing drugs, Sherlock. I can deal with the smoking, the violin at two in the morning, the constant texts, even the dead body parts…but tell me that you're not a pothead."

"I'm not a pothead."

"…are you lying?"

"John how dare you-"

"Are you…lying to me?" the doctor repeated, stressing each word. He was acting remarkably upset, Sherlock noted. Perhaps this wasn't John's first run in with drugs?

"I am not lying to you, John," he said as he stood from his chair and over towards the man, "I would never lie to you." His voice was low, emphasizing the deep baritone of it. The blond seemed slightly uncomfortable with the proximity as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his grip on the bag tightening.

"Then throw this out."

"John, it's for a case. I can't just-" He saw that his friend's expression was unwavering, and realized there was no way to win unless he removed the evidence. The detective supposed he could solve the case well enough without it.

"Fine," he sighed before he took the marijuana from his friend. He knew he was being watched as he walked over and dropped it into the kitchen's wastebasket, knew that if he suddenly turned around, an aching expression would appear on the doctor's face and he simply wouldn't know what to do or how to fix it. So instead of addressing it, he turned just enough to walk out the kitchen without meeting John's eyes.

"I'm going to my mind-palace. Don't bother me," he said, as if that was just as good as an explanation as any other. For him, it was because the blond stayed away from his room for the rest of the evening. After all, he needed his own time to think. He knew Sherlock wasn't that stupid. Then again, that fake drugs bust when he had just moved in…

Surely there were secrets Sherlock Holmes hid from him, but John was just as sure that his flat mate wasn't a drug user. So why had he reacted so vehemently to the marijuana? Why would he care anyway?

Sherlock kept severed body parts and questionable chemicals around the kitchen. He used nicotine patches at an alarming, and dangerous, rate. He shot at the walls, stole John's phone, kept him single, had an insane brother with a knack for kidnapping, had no respect for privacy, couldn't be decent to save his life, and…

And…

And John loved all of it. Every single flaw and annoying trait were so endearing in their odd ways that his love for them was stifling. Not them. Him. The things he would do for his flat mate was above and beyond that of a normal relationship. He should have realized this earlier, he admitted. Within the first few days of knowing him, he had willingly chased him around London and had even killed a man for him. And he would do it again, if he needed it. Which, knowing Sherlock Holmes, was a likely possibility.

If he were totally honest with himself, John was probably in love with his insane flat mate and there was really only one thing he could do in his mind. Simply saying it was difficult, would be considered a sign of weakness in the detective's eyes. It needed to be something unspoken, something that didn't involve contact, something where John didn't have to meet the intimidating gaze of those analyzing eyes…

He knew what to do, and went towards the brunette's door.

Sherlock was in his room, still miffed slightly that John simply hadn't come out with his feelings yet. But then, when he expected John either to be tapping once again at a torturously slow pace on his blog or going upstairs for an early bed, he heard a knock at his door. Groggily, no longer caring that he was misreading what the blond's actions would be, he got up to answer it. Yet, as soon as his hand began to turn the knob...

"No," John murmured, "Just...keep it shut, Sherlock. Please." The detective was confused, which was a sickening feeling, but listened as the blond leaned against the door, even slid down it. Without a proper explanation, Sherlock did the same, silently so. No words were said and with the door separating them, the detective had next to nothing to work with. He had no idea what the blond was intending.

Until, suddenly, he heard a trembling moan slip from under the door.

"John?" he calls, eyes trained on the door. He knew what he was hearing, but couldn't believe it.

"Sherlock," the doctor breathed as his hand moved in a steady tempo along his shaft. Sherlock listened to him, finding the small corner of pleasure in his mind palace. His own groin was aching to be touched, having stirred to life as soon as that wanton moan came from John's side of the door. The brunette carefully shoved his sweatpants down his legs, to his knees. His erection – nearly filled now – was yearning for attention, for the feel of a familiar palm against the sensitive flesh. He obeyed diligently, not bothering to question why John was doing whatever it was this could be considered.

Yes, even Sherlock and his massive intellect couldn't quite put a name to this…surprisingly sexual encounter he was having with his colleague. Still, his slender fingers wrapped themselves around his shaft and began to stroke, slow and thoughtful at first. As he listened to John and his increase in moans, muffled noises of appreciation, and whispered names, he quickened his pace to match what he could only deduce as a similar speed to John's own masturbating hand.

The taller man closed his eyes, accessing the image of John he always chose. The man was sitting there, by the television – though it was off – and he was slumped slightly with his legs spread enough to fit a certain detective in between his thighs should he want it, a nice change from the rigid soldier stance. In his hands was a book, not terribly small or big – but oh it was old. Sherlock could practically smell the paper from where he was, and it only beckoned him closer.

"John…" The image in his head paid him no heed, but continued reading. And when he turned a page, the blond brought an index finger to his lips and licked its tip a little faster than the other man would have liked, but then when he used his saliva to aide him in turning to the next page in his book, Sherlock found it to make up for that hurried movement. The image shifted in his seat a bit, nearly chewing on his lower lip out of a long-forgotten habit. When he realized what he was doing, he flicked his tongue across his lips to reprimand himself and went back to the reading.

Then, the doctor's eyes shifted from side to side, as if he was searching for someone. There was no one there though, and with what appeared to be relief across his features, he set the book aside. Breathing his name, Sherlock's eyes locked onto the constricted bulge in his flat mate's trousers. The John he imagined released his erection, hissing out a curse. His hand wrapped around his shaft and he began pumping; so it was a quickie, the detective realized, before anyone could enter the flat and interrupt.

"Just like that, John," he murmured. All the while he imagined this, he had been steadily stroking himself off until pre-cum was drooling down the side of his cock.

"Sh-Sherlock," the blond panted through the door. He was closer than his flat mate, despite having gone without the taller man's deep, admittedly sensual voice whispering and moaning to him. Just knowing he was there, though, touching himself because of John…

Something warm washed over the doctor and it seemed to be a prelude to his whelming orgasm. His eyes squeezed shut as he milked his release, uncaring of the puddle of cum gathering on the floor, uncaring that his breath hitched slightly – a sound Sherlock had never dreamed of but once he heard it, he was pushed over by the end. Thinking of all the ways he could get John to sound like that again flooded his mind and overflowed to trickle down his palm, pooling on the floor.

Whatever this was, whatever they had just done, it more than likely ruined the floors. Mrs. Hudson was going to get in a tizzy or worse, she would ask how it happened. John would fight a smile – just another one of their experiments, surely – until he would realize his mate had looked to him in a silent explanation. Blush would break out onto his neck, the tips of his ears if Sherlock was lucky.

That could be days from this moment, however, and the two men still had now to deal with. The detective mulled over what he knew about "normal" people, and their after-mating rituals. They would sleep in the same bed, the more amorous ones, and would cuddle or spoon or whatever they were calling it these days. Though he liked to think John was closer to his level of intellect than the average Londoner – something he would probably never tell his friend – he was sure the shorter man preferred at least some of their customs.

"...John?" Sherlock murmured, his forehead pressed to the wood. The good doctor made a grunt of a reply, obviously coming down from his high slower than the brunette. His flat mate sat up, lifting the waistband of his pants back up to settle snugly on his hips.

"You should come in," he said, "I can stand some...cuddling, if you require that affection." For a silent moment, he found himself scared - a horrifying revelation in its own right - that his friend left to his own room. Instead, a laugh carried through the wood in a soft, spent sort of way.

"Why not?" he replied though his voice sounded higher up, as if he was standing. And this time, he turned the door handle and was about to swing the door open. Rather than standing up, Sherlock pushed himself aside so as not to block the door. John looked down at him with an amused smile. He should have expected as much. The detective looked no different than usual.
And yet he did. Something in him looked different, something the doctor couldn't quite place. But, a few minutes later, as he was tucked up against the one and only Sherlock Holmes, he didn't seem to care.

He did, however, manage to dig his phone from his pocket. He almost set it on the nightstand beside the bed, but something told him to check his messages. There were a few from his sister, one from Mike asking to meet up, and nearly two dozen unreplied messages from Moriarty.

John stifled a yawn before opening a text to reply to the criminal and admit what he should have done a while ago:

Sorry. I'm choosing him, after all.

And he switched his phone off for the night, set it on the table, and fell asleep in the arms a selfish, narcissistic, impossible, childish, high-functioning sociopath.

He slept wonderfully.