warning: Final chapter. Surprise!

In order to celebrate surviving another semester of uni, Sarah throws an end-of-the-semester-don't-leave-till-you're-drunk party that only about half the entire campus shows up to.

Sherlock and John take to standing in the corner of the room engrossing in idle chatter, each with a beer in hand.

Just a short while later, Lestrade appears before the two, face flushed red and obviously a bit tipsy. He shows up with a huge grin, like he had gotten everything on his Christmas list, and upon approaching the couple, he stumbles a little bit.

"John," he cries out excitedly. "John, I wanted to tell you something."

"You're dating Sally Donovan," Sherlock observes.

"What?" Both Lestrade and John call out in unison, eyes suddenly wide and staring right at Sherlock.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh please, you didn't expect I wouldn't be able to see that lipstick stain on your neck."

In response, Lestrade cautiously adjusted the collar of his shirt to cover more of his skin, suddenly self-conscious.

"Not only is the stain that horrid color of lipstick only Sally uses, but the position and angle of the mark is a match to her exact height."

"No…" Lestrade starts. "Well, yes, but that wasn't what I wanted to tell you. God, Sherlock, you always ruin the moment."

John shakes his head quickly. "Never mind him. What did you want?"

"It's my father," Lestrade tells them, his eyes wide. "I got a near perfect on my forensics exam and you know what he said to me?" He didn't wait for an answer before dropping his voice to mimic his father's. "He said 'son, maybe you've got it in you to be a great detective after all,'"

John lets out a laugh and claps his hands together. "Greg, that's wonderful!" And when Sherlock simply lets out a huff, John rolls his eyes. "Don't mind him. Sherlock's just upset that Mycroft chewed him out for failing his English exam."

"It's no concern of mine how Shakespeare shaped Renascence culture!" Sherlock tries to defend himself.

"That's not what you're supposed to write on your exam," John cries out. "You're supposed to humor the professor a little bit!"

But before things can get into a heated argument, Sally Donovan herself shows up to save the day, instantly latching herself onto Lestrade's arm. "Hello boys," she flashes a fake smile, her cheeks almost as red as Lestrade's. "Mind if I steal my man back from you?"

John throws his hands up. "Not at all."

"Great." And she drags Lestrade away, the both of them throwing "I love you"s and "I love you too"s at each other until they fade out in the distance.

"Ugh," Sherlock remarks in disgust.

"What?" John asks.

"They're not even in love."

"What?" John repeats, his tone a bit higher this time.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Come on, neither of their eyes dilate when looking at the other. There isn't any sort of physical indication of them being attracted to one another and yet they're still throwing around love confessions like they're nothing."

"So you think one should only confess that they love someone when they're absolutely sure they do?" John inquires, finding the conversation quite interesting.

"Of course," is Sherlock's blatant response.

"Well then, what about you?" John questions, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock can see the expectant expression on John's face and hesitates. "Well, it's…you know."

"I love you," John states, his eyes locked onto Sherlock's and his expression suddenly serious. When his statement elicits no response, he poses a question. "Well? Don't you love me?"

Sherlock opens his mouth, but closes it thereafter and decides in favor of saying "is that even a necessary question? You already know the answer."

"Evidently I don't," John says. "Just answer the question. Do you love me or not?"

Silence.

"Sherlock?" Once again, John receives no reaction. Having quite enough, he stands up straight and presses his lips into a thin line. "I see," he says solemnly, and turns around to leave.

"Wait," Sherlock calls out, grabbing John's wrist swiftly, only to have John yank his hand out of Sherlock's grasp and begin to walk away. "John! John, they're just words!"

"Exactly!" John spins around on his heels to sharply face Sherlock. "They're just words! Words you can't even bring yourself to say! After everything, all we've been through, this entire time, and you never once told me you loved me! You can't even bring yourself to mutter three meaningless words!" He seems to want to say something more, stutters a little bit, and upon seeing Sherlock's hurt expression, shakes his head violently and throws his hands in the air. "I can't," he simply says, and turns back around to walk away, leaving Sherlock standing there all alone.

When Sherlock glances around the room, several pairs of eyes are on him. He can read their thoughts quite clearly. "What just happened?" "Did they finally have a falling out?" "Whose fault is it?" "Well, they're done." "Someone just got dumped."

A firm hand creeps onto Sherlock's shoulder and he finds Lestrade before him once again, a sympathetic expression upon his drunken face. "Aren't you going to chase after him?" He asks Sherlock.

Sherlock pulls himself together long enough to stand in a dignified manner and exhale sharply. "I don't chase. John is simply overreacting"

Lestrade shrugs. "Sometimes we've gotta chase after things in life. Otherwise, we might lose them forever."

Suddenly furious, Sherlock violently shakes Lestrade off his shoulder and walks away from the crowd.

John takes solace on his bed, sprawled out across the surface and his eyes transfixed on the dull-colored ceiling. It feels different, strange almost. John did rarely lay in this bed nowadays. His room is much cleaner than Sherlock's. Clothes don't cover the floor, homework doesn't lay strewn across like confetti, and the mattress is much less permanently stained with chemicals. This is John's room, and yet it is like a stranger to him.

There is, however, a familiar piece of material peeking out from under John's bed that he recognizes as one of Sherlock's shirts. He reaches over the side of the bed to grab it and hold it up over his head. He marvels at it in reminiscence. It was a shirt designed for tall thin men, but even then it often fell loose around Sherlock's waist. He takes it and covers his face in it, inhaling slowly in hopes of finding Sherlock's familiar scent still looming, but with no avail. Feeling like a pervert, he quickly throws the shirt back onto the floor.

He gets up and walks into the small university dorm-sized sitting room and realizes this room is a stranger to him as well. He sits on the couch that he recognizes as his own-a gift from his mother that he perhaps hadn't really appreciated much until now-and runs his hand across the cold, smooth leather. Sherlock's couch was always warm and soft in contrast.

John hadn't understood how much Sherlock had taken precedence over his life until this very moment when John realized it could all end very soon. He remembers his father's words the day he left for uni quite clear. "Don't worry too much about getting a girlfriend," he had said. "Most college relationships don't last for too long."

Was it so bad, though, that John liked to think he and Sherlock would last forever?

He exhales deeply and lies down on the couch, all the energy exhausted from his body, and closes his eyes. He's a medical student, for god's sakes, and that should be his top priority. He should be studying right now, semester break or not, not lazying around a dorm that didn't even feel like his.

Sleep, however, was a very good thing, and a thing that not many university students could take advantage of.

Unfortunately, just as he began to drift off into a peaceful slumber, the door burst open and John sat up straight in immediate reaction.

"Who the fuck-," John starts, but is interrupted by the sight of Sherlock standing there in the doorway, door swung wide open and the most apologetic face John had ever seen on the man.

Before Sherlock even steps into the room, he blurts out "I love you."

John's breath hitches.

"I love you, John," Sherlock repeats, stumbling into the room. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

"Sherlock," John breathes, scrambling to his feet and starting towards Sherlock. "Sherlock, stop."

But Sherlock doesn't stop. "I love you," he cries out. "I love you, I love you. I've loved you this whole time and I never told you but I've loved you and I still love you and I'll love you forever, John please, oh god I love you," and his legs give out and John reaches out to catch him and they go down together, knees to the floor and arms embracing each other in support.

"Sherlock-," John starts to say, but he is cut off.

"Don't leave me," Sherlock all but sobs, burying his face into the crevice of John's neck and tightening his arms around John's back. "Oh god, don't leave me. I'm sorry. I said it, okay? I said what you wanted me to say."

"I'm not leaving," John replies, stroking Sherlock's curly mess of hair tenderly. "They're just words. I was being a big baby. I was being drunk and foolish and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pressured you to say that. That's all they are is words."

"They're not," Sherlock explains. "They're not just words. That's why I couldn't bring myself to say them. Because as soon as I said them, I feared that you and I would finally be bound forever and if you ever left me I'd never be able to recover. I kept silent to hold onto you," he cries out. "I'm a selfish man."

"Stop," John almost laughs. He then brings his hands to cup Sherlock's face and they face each other eye to eye. "Just stop. Stop talking. Nothing needs to be said ever again." He pulls Sherlock into him for a ferocious kiss, teeth practically smashing into each other violently.

When they need a breath, they pull away just far enough so that their foreheads still touch and Sherlock snakes his fingers around John's neck.

They smile at each other, their faces saying what their words never could, and for the rest of that night, not a word leaves either of their lips.

They spend the entire next day back at Sherlock's dorm- also known as home to John.

Peaceful and relaxed, they sit with the telly on mute, Sherlock's arm draped around John's shoulder as if protecting him, and John's head against Sherlock's chest, lazily drifting in and out of consciousness.

"Hey, Sherlock," John mumbles quietly.

"Hmm?" is Sherlock's response.

"I've been thinking for a long time, ever since those serial murders, and if you really want my opinion, I'd say you should change majors at this very instant and switch to forensics like Lestrade. I think you'd make a great detective."

Sherlock let out a small laugh. "Rudimentary. And dull. I only take cases that interest me."

John was silent for a while before he responded "well, maybe you could. You could be a…a police consultant or something. Or a detective. A detective consultant."

"A consulting detective," Sherlock pondered for a moment, letting the phrase slide off his tongue. "Yes, I think I like that idea."

END

THANK YOU SO MUCH for all the favorites and reviews and everything. This is the longest piece I've done that I've actually finished and boy, sometimes it was a bit of a struggle to find motivation, but you guys and your encouragement really kept me going. This story was a journey for me, and I think I've learned quite a bit from it. For example, I've learned that it's not safe to save this on my school flashdrive, oops. But really, just thanks to everyone again.