A/N: Thank you so much to all of the favourites and follows.

this is the last chapter for this story but if the writing behaves I may continue in this Universe:)

Thanks to mattsloved1 and johnsarmylady for looking this over for me!

4. Some Other Beginning's End

John stood waiting. He'd been here for about thirty minutes and was beginning to wonder if Sherlock would even show.

A heavy sighed escaped before he could contain it. He should have said fuck it to his honour and his moral high ground and just, well…fucked him last night.

He was never going to see him again. Oh sure, he knew where he lived, but he didn't think he could just show up unannounced. Not that it mattered if he'd killed a man for him, it would just be awkward. After all he really didn't do this sort of thing. He didn't pick up strange men in pubs, he didn't kill for them either. He grimaced. But Sherlock was different. It was like there was an invisible thread tugging at his heart. What person kisses someone like that and then takes off after a serial killer? He had probably just been used for the distraction and the detective had forgotten about him. He sighed again, his brain whirling with dilemma and confusion and it flitted about with ideas and images. It was exhausting.

The bell rang for closing and everyone began to gather their coats. Farewells were said and people made their way to the door. John drained his glass and followed. He collected his cane. Funny that. He hadn't realized he had forgotten it last night until the next morning. The rush from the chase and the adrenalin kick seemed to convince his dodgy leg to behave. If nothing else came about he was at least grateful to Sherlock for that.

John made his way out and fastened his jacket. The wind had picked up and the cold blew through him. It was going to be a long walk to the nearest Tube Station. He huddled into his coat trying to stay warm.

He had only gone a few steps when he thought he heard his name.

"John!"

It was a wonderful feeling, hope.

The crazed, madman from last night was running toward him. His coat flapped behind and as he came closer, John could see that his cheeks were pink from the chill.

John's heart did a funny little lurch, as if that string was being coiled in, drawing him closer to the other man.

"I was…delayed. I had to ensure my flat was habitable again. Tedious. I hope you weren't waiting too long." His voice was every bit as deep and sensual as last night and it continued to slide up and down his spine.

"Um…no, not too long. But the pub just closed and I was heading home."

The unearthly eyes swept over him. John felt it, as if Sherlock had plucked at that string. He pulsed with it.

"Oh! You thought I wasn't coming. You were waiting for me and thought I wouldn't show." Sherlock looked decidedly uncomfortable.

A shrug. "It's all right." He smiled. "You're here now."

Sherlock continued to stare at John and startlingly he grinned. "Yes, yes I am" He sobered almost as quickly. "You should know John, I'm, I'm not an easy person to be with. I don't do relationships, I won't talk for days, I play the violin at odd hours, I'm difficult."

John tilted his head and looked thoughtful. "And I've invaded Afghanistan. You're not so scary." He shrugged again "Of course I wasn't alone." He giggled at little. It was all so intense, the giggle was like a safety valve. The taller man stepped into his space, permeated it with his overpowering presence. John could feel the heat rolling off of him, flames licking, both scorching and melting. The wind blew harder through and around them, lifted the ends of Sherlock's coat and seemed to be nudging them together, but it failed to cool the ardour that burned between them. If anything it fanned the flames higher, tendrils reaching out and wrapping around them both.

"John, my flat is back to normal, well, when I say normal…it's been cleaned. My brother owed me a favour. Would you come home with me?"

He couldn't stop himself. He stood up on his toes and grabbed Sherlock's coat. The other man leaned down and they kissed, quick and rough. They drew back a bit and Sherlock lifted a hand to trace the edges of John's face.

"Let's go," John said, his voice low. Sherlock hailed a cab.

"You're sure you want to go in a cab? I mean…"

"Really John, how many murderous cabbies do you think there are in London."

They sat close, legs touching. John reached over and picked up Sherlock's hand. He felt an imperative need to constantly touch his skin and he ran his hand over the back of the long elegant fingers and thought about what they could do to him. He was almost shaking with suppressed desire. Sherlock looked down at their two hands together and back up at John. He leaned over and kissed John again, this time slower, he took his lower lip between his own and scraped over it, lightly, with his teeth. The cabbie cleared his throat. John grinned into Sherlock's mouth but didn't pull back. What he did do was he take his free hand and wrap it around Sherlock's neck and let his tongue sweep the lush upper lip. A low groan started in the pit of John's stomach and climbed up, reverberating through them.

The cab screeched to a halt and the cabbie banged on the partition. Sherlock broke away long enough to pass the driver some money and haul John out of the cab.

He was pushed roughly against the door of Sherlock's building, the detective's hands were everywhere, in his hair, grabbing his arse but John couldn't get close enough and pressed into him harder, his leg wedged between Sherlock's and he lifted his knee a little to brush against the prominent bulge. Sherlock gasped and fumbled with the latch. The door bounced open and they blundered into the entry, stopping long enough to hang their coats. John was pretty sure his slid to the floor but he really didn't care. He was much too interested in Sherlock's hands as they explored and at the same time managed to tow him up the stairs and into the flat. There wasn't much chance to look around, but he had the impression of old Victorian style wallpaper and a scattered, organized chaos. Sherlock had wrapped his hands on either side of his head again and was kissing him. It felt like drowning. There wasn't enough air. There never would be.

Crashing into the next room, they fell onto the bed. Sherlock paused his kisses long enough to pull John's jumper over his head at the same time John was attempting to undo the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. Hands were batted away until the jumper was tossed aside and then, between kisses, they managed to divest each other of their shirts.

Sherlock paused and swept his gaze over John's naked chest. The doctor shivered at the concentration, the feeling of being consumed. Sherlock's eyes flickered over the knot of scar tissue on his left shoulder. "This is why you came to London, why you were discharged." It wasn't a question. John nodded, unable to speak, embarrassed. Sherlock looked at him, ruthlessly. "Don't be." And bent and kissed his shoulder with reverence and tenderness, contradicting the tone of voice. "If you hadn't have been shot, you might not have come to London."

John's breath drew in as Sherlock nibbled and sucked and touched it with his tongue. He thought he might explode. He would never in a lifetime have thought someone tonguing his scar could be so erotic.

"What are you doing?" he managed at last.

"Memorizing it. This is sacred, this scar. It brought you to me." John laid his head back and watched as Sherlock revered his body. He ran his hands down the long back and was just able to skim the top of Sherlock's jeans. His fingertips dipped under and brushed his pants. Sherlock broke off and kissed his way up John's neck, moving his body at the same time so John could run his hands underneath the band. He ran his nails lightly over the plump arse, deceptively so as the rest of the man was wire thin.

As Sherlock moved, John could feel the length of the other man's erection against his leg and he became even harder. They shifted again until their crotches were aligned and they began to move together. John thought he might be hyperventilating and he stopped to catch his breath, eyes closed. When he opened them again it was to see he was being scrutinized once more.

"What?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed with worry.

The impossibly beautiful face held such awe, it felt as if he'd break right there, fragment into bright, shiny shards of glass.

"Why?" was the reply. "I don't do this, this sort of thing." The hand waved in the air before it returned to gently encase John's jaw and caress it. "I don't do this. What is it about you? You are completely addictive. I've only known you just over a day, but I will never let you go." A puzzled expression crossed the angular face. "I will need a lifetime to take you apart and find out what you are, to burrow under your skin and dissect you."

John stilled, a feeling of utter rapture tore through his heart and it did break, it broke and was reconfigured into what simply had to be Sherlock.

"Oh God. I think that's a bit not good, but fuck if I care." And he grabbed the back of Sherlock's head and yanked him down toward him once more, trying to tell him with his mouth and not with words how utterly undone he was becoming.

Sherlock thrust his hand between them and began undoing John's belt. He teased his fingers over John's erection, and they both whimpered. He could come just from this, from kisses and touching.

His jeans were quickly opened and those teasing fingers moved over him through his pants.

John stopped him. "Fuck! I'm so stupid!"

Sherlock looked at him as if he had two heads. "Granted you aren't as intelligent as I am but you're much smarter than most of the other idiots out there."

John ran a hand over his face. "No! I didn't bring anything… you know!"

Sherlock grinned, alarmingly a little shark like and wild, but John really didn't care because of the funny thing it was doing to his breathing. He watched as a pale arm reached past to the bedside table and withdrew a small packet and a tube, which were pressed into his hand.

John blinked and then flushed. "I, umm I really have never done this before. I mean I know the theory, but no, not this far with another man, just, you know…"

"Fellatio?"

"Uh, yeah." He blushed even more. One day Sherlock would tell him he wanted to take John and fuck him every time he coloured.

Sherlock's head titled and he studied John for almost a full minute. John was getting a little nervous at the intensity and the silence but said nothing.

Sherlock lowered his head and kissed him some more until he simply melted into the bed, and became loose and pliant.

His jeans were tugged off and discarded, as were his pants. He didn't really see how but Sherlock was apparently naked as well.

One hand was braced against the headboard, the long body over John, his mouth doing unspeakable things to his own and the other hand…

"Fuck! Christ!"

The other hand had grasped John and was slowly pumping.

"Shit! Slow down. I'm going to come."

The hand was withdrawn and began fondling his balls. John let out a long shuddering breath. Somehow, at some point Sherlock had slicked lube over his hand and one finger was rubbing over his arsehole. As the first finger went in, he hissed.

A bit lip and a query. "All right?"

"Oh god, yes! Don't stop!"

The finger slid in and out and found its way, crooking, until it brushed John's prostrate. He gasped again the first was joined by a second and Sherlock's other hand continued to stroke John's cock. He fisted his hands, one in the thick, dark curls the other in the sheets. He arched his back trying to connect the two of them along the whole length of their bodies, just to touch, to feel the smooth, silver skin against his own. There was a shift and Sherlock had three fingers inside and had wrapped his long fingers around both their cocks. Pumping slowly, maddeningly.

"Oh Christ!" he looked down to see and came with a convulsion. It seemed to go on for a long time and he was beginning to wonder if he was even breathing. He cracked open one eye and Sherlock was there, watching once again. He though, giddily, that he could get use to.

"That was indescribable, to watch you… to see you...you were so open and vulnerable." the deep, rich voice whispered. John gradually became coherent enough to see that Sherlock hadn't come yet. He tiredly grasped his lover's? cock in his and he murmured.

"Come on Sherlock. Come for me."

The taller man wasn't far behind and when it was over he collapsed, heaving, upon John's sweat drenched chest. John smiled and stroked the long back before he managed to wriggle his trapped hand out from between them. He fished his pants from the bottom of the bed with his toes, wiped off the mess and snuggled down, rolling Sherlock into him so his head was still resting on his chest and John's arms were encircled around the detective's body. Their breathing was returning to normal but John knew his heart would never recover.

Sherlock continued to pepper the parts he could reach with kisses, intoning odd things that sounded vaguely like the periodic table and quite possibly in French. Listening to these quiet mutterings, he knew he had never been happier or more content. One hand continued to finger and tangle through the curls on the back of the amazingly clever head as he thought, drifting into sleep. This was it for him. He'd begun in Afghanistan, it had moulded and shaped him, made him stronger, but it had come to an end with a Talban bullet. He'd come back to London to start over, he'd managed to work and live but until he met Sherlock he hadn't really been alive. What he had thought was his end in Afghanistan turned out to just be a new beginning.

Just as he was about to tip over into what felt could be a deep dreamless sleep, he heard Sherlock breath into his ear. "How would you feel about a flat share?"

John chuckled sleepily, "Sure, because I feel like living with you could be a nice quiet life."

Sherlock smiled against his skin. "As long as you don't mind body parts in the fridge."

John frowned, and decided that maybe tomorrow would be better suited to discover if Sherlock was serious or not.