Aw man. Guys...this is it. The final chapter. This monster I have been dealing with since November 1st is done. It definitely isn't perfect, there are certainly plot holes and inconsistencies that need to be fixed, and there are questions to be answered in the next story. But overall I find myself content and hopefully you will too. It has been a delightful journey with all of you and I look forward to seeing what you think.

(P.S. One of my favorite, favorite, FAVORITE Sherlock fanartists, Kelley or anotherwellkeptsecret on Tumblr, opened up commissions recently. In order to get myself motivated to finish this, I asked for her to do a scene from this story, the bit in chapter seven where Sherlock first tries John's wand. It came out absolutely magnificent. Please please please check it out and rave over how fantastic Kelley's skills are. Simply type this link into your browser without the spaces to bask in the perfection - anotherwellkeptsecret. tumblr post/ 124038351044 /greyscale-lineart-commission-for# )

Chapter Twelve

John wasn't certain how he ended up in the comfortable chair locked away in Harry's office. The last solid memory he had was watching Sherlock dive for Mary as she fell. He imagined he ought to be feeling some sort of grief, at the very least flashbacks of when Sherlock fell, but oddly all John felt was hollowness. It was as though his mind, when forced to confront watching the wife he didn't even really know fall to her death, decided that the only possible remedy for the situation was to shut down.

Somehow he was always aware of Sherlock, however. Whether he was simply sitting silently in the seat beside him or attempting to get him to swallow down countless cups of tea, John could always sense when Sherlock was in the room. The sensation tinged beneath his skin as though he had a homing device directly connected to the man, alerting him of his every move to reassure him that this time it was Sherlock attempting to comfort him, Sherlock urging him to open up and talk, to eat and sleep and care for himself in one of the many ways John always attempted to care for him. Though currently unable to express it, the mere fact that he was not mourning Sherlock this time around, let alone that the man was watching over him with anxious devotion, was enough to comfort him completely.

He had no idea when he fell asleep, but when he blinked his eyes open the Muggle alarm clock on Harry's desk was flashing half eight in the morning. John stretched his neck to each side, attempting to work out the kinks caused by sleeping in an armchair all evening, and gave his shoulder a few careful rolls. Despite his time out in the misty night and sleeping in the chair, it was surprisingly limber. He felt around the back of the chair and pulled out a small, plainly patterned fabric bag. It was a rich blue in colour and shifted easily in John's fingers, small objects shifting around inside it that reminded him of rice. He hefted the bag in his hand and felt the warmth of it settle pleasantly over his palm.

"Harry helped me find it," Sherlock said suddenly from a chair nearby, causing John to jump. "It's an aromatherapy rice pack. Normally one would warm it in a microwave, but Harry talked me through a fairly basic heating charm. I've had to reset it a few times since you fell asleep, but it seems to be holding the heat fairly well now."

Sherlock stood to step forward and place a cup of tea before John. He nodded his thanks before downing nearly all of it in one go, practically scalding his mouth in the process. Sherlock lowered himself back into the chair opposite, sipping from his own cup much more sedately.

"How are you doing?" John asked, settling back into the cushion and reapplying the rice pack at its easy position between his shoulder blades. He hummed his satisfaction as the heat began to seep back into his bones.

"I'm perfectly fine, John. It isn't as though that was the first I witnessed someone dying." Sherlock's eyes fixed on John's face, studying it intently. "The more important question is how are you?"

"I'm…okay. Honestly." He could see the doubt in Sherlock's eyes and couldn't help but smile. "Really, Sherlock, it's fine. We've already established that I was fairly pissed at Mary, rightly so, and that things were basically over between us anyway. I'm a bit upset that she decided to kill herself and more than a bit bothered that she chose to do it that way, but…I don't know. Is it possible to have already expected what you figured was inevitable?"

Sherlock nodded. "It's understandable. Regardless, her life as we all knew it was over, whether it was through death or a life sentence in Azkaban. It was unfortunate that those were our only options."

John gave a long sigh, letting his head fall back against the cushions. "God. I should have expected all this. I should have done something about it when she gave us the flash drive. This was a disaster from the start."

"Don't, John." When John looked up, Sherlock's eyes were fixed intensely on him. "This is not your fault. You cannot blame yourself for the fact that you seem drawn to the dangerous sort."

Chuckling, John replied, "Yes, well. Can't help but blame myself for it, even if it's not my fault. I just wish Cecelia didn't have to pay for my ridiculous mistakes, however indirectly."

Sherlock abruptly jumped to his feet, offering John a hand. "Come. Let's go collect your daughter."

John took the offered hand with a small grin. "Let's."

Their walk back in from Hogsmeade was a silent one. They fell into step easily, close enough to the other that their shoulders and elbows brushed with each step. John knew that eventually they would have to discuss the tension between them. Even Mary had insinuated that they felt something for each other that was more than platonic, and from the signs Sherlock was giving him John felt a bit more confident of what the other wished from him. It was simply a matter of one of them taking the final plunge and acting on what was obvious.

John was on the verge of speaking when Sherlock suddenly veered off the path, his motions intense. John followed close behind, forehead wrinkling in confusion, but he didn't break their silence. They marched along the grass, one behind the other as always, and eventually the trees started to clump closer together. Uncertainty grew at a marginal pace, familiarity settling in when recognition hit John the farther they travelled. He never purposefully went into the Forbidden Forest, but he could tell from the angle of their trek that they would soon be entering it, if they weren't there already. He rushed up to match Sherlock's longer stride and put out a hand to grasp his shoulder.

"Sherlock? Where are you headed? Even if it's daylight, we really shouldn't be in the forest, particularly when I'm the only one with real magical experience."

"There's something," he mumbled, his face knitting in a frown. "I saw it from a distance as it landed. It was peculiar shaped…it isn't far now, I was able to judge the distance from the trajectory." He froze, causing John to collide slightly with him. He raised a hand to gesture into the clearing they had been approaching. "There. What is that?"

John's eyes widened. Three creatures stood in the clearing, their outlines somewhat skeletal in shape. He watched as one ruffled its scaly wings, giving a shake of his head not unlike a horse. He let his hand slowly fall down from Sherlock's shoulder, dragging his fingers lightly down his sleeve. He noticed the shiver it caused to roll down Sherlock's spine and shot him a mischievous grin as he passed. When Sherlock didn't follow, John snatched up his hand and pulled him along.

"Come on, then, they're safe. They're thestrals."

"They're majestic," Sherlock breathed. His fingers twitched out as he reached towards them, offering his palm for inspection. One of them gave a snort and a toss of his head before tentatively stepping towards his hand, hot air blowing from the flared nostrils. He gave Sherlock's fingers a nudge and, reassured that all was well, proceeded to snuggle into it. An expression of amazed wonder spread across Sherlock's face and John couldn't look away, a wide grin etching across his own face. He stepped into the thestral's chest, his curls brushing against its ears enough to make them twitch. They nuzzled into each other, the thestral basking in the unfamiliar warmth of the gesture. Before long, the other two came to circle Sherlock until he nearly spun in his attempts to give attention to each at the same time. John's bark of laughter caused his head to bolt up, the thestrals copying the motion. He came up to Sherlock's side, running a hand along the ears of one thestral while Sherlock saw after the other two.

"You didn't hear about them in any of those tomes you read?" John asked. At Sherlock's shake of his head, he went on to explain. "They draw the carriages the students ride in to get to and from Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. Most people are pretty afraid of them – they can only be seen by those who have witnessed death firsthand."

Sherlock froze and stared at John, fixed into place. He jolted out of his thoughts when one of them nudged its head with Sherlock's, causing the man to shake himself slightly and return to stroking its back. "Is that why they look like this?"

John shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know much about them beyond that, actually. I'm not all that surprised you're so fascinated with them, honestly. They're just your sort of creature."

Humming his agreement, Sherlock continued to stroke his pair silently, his hands running reverently over their skeletal forms. They stood together comfortably and simply enjoyed the comfort of their mutual comradery. John kept stealing sly looks at Sherlock, watching his amazement at the thestrals and savouring the ease. A warm feeling of ready contentment settled into his chest, urging him forward and closer to the other. Normally he forced the by now too familiar sensation down, but this instance felt happily different.

"Fuck it," he muttered with a firm nod and surged forward, clashing their lips together in a motion that shuddered with satisfaction. He carefully watched for Sherlock's reaction, but after his initial jolt of surprise he melted into the sensation, his hands fluttering between grasping at John's shoulders and entangling his fingers with his hair. John thought for a moment he would have to catch him as his knees wobbled and he pushed closer, attempting to get further into Sherlock's space while lifting his hands to cradle his skull in sure fingers. One of the thestrals gave an abrupt snort that shocked them apart, although their faces remained close enough for their noses to brush. John couldn't help but grin up at Sherlock's blank face, adjusting himself enough in Sherlock's fierce grip to maneuver about and push a curl from his forehead. Eventually Sherlock blinked back into awareness, the tiniest of smiles coming to his lips at the sight of John's own. "Okay?"

"Perfect," Sherlock sighed and fell back on him so they were connected once more. Neither paid much attention to how long they stood in the clearing snogging, thestrals butting occasionally at their elbows in a bid for attention, but eventually John forced them apart. Sherlock's eyebrows knit in confusion, but he was reassured by the warm expression on John's face. With a nudge of his head back in the direction of the castle and a confident grasp of his hand, John led them back up to the school.

Neville met them in the entrance hall, Cecelia happily bouncing in his arms and all of their things packed neatly in their bags at his feet. At the sight of John and Sherlock, she squealed in delight, her tiny fists grasping out for them while she leaned forward in Neville's grasp. With a bright laugh, John snatched her up in a hug and allowed her to curl into his chest. When she saw Sherlock standing back slightly from them, she reached out a hand to encourage him forward, her opposite thumb firmly fixed into her mouth. The small smile the gesture put on Sherlock's face caused John to pull him forward himself to bring their lips together again. They were encouraged to part at the sound of McGonagall clearing her throat.

"Am I to assume that your little adventure went according to plan?" she asked, a faint smirk on her face as she observed their matching pair of blushing faces. "Or as well as could be expected, at least."

"Mary is dead," John replied flatly. The sadness that had taken his voice over whenever discussing her the last few weeks was finally gone. "She explained herself first, for which I am grateful, but yeah, she's gone. Practically gave us her blessing before offing herself, actually."

McGonagall's face turned sympathetic as she nodded. "I thought as much. If nothing else, I hope this has given you the closure you desired." At John's smile of appreciation, she turned to Sherlock. "Professor Dumbledore's portrait and I have been investigating what you discovered about the quill. Apparently the Holmes family occasionally comes up on our list of possible future students, though the inclusion is intermittent and the exact reason why remains a mystery. There seemed to be a bit of question in regard to you specifically, Mr. Holmes. Obviously you hold a certain amount of magical ability, but the quill wasn't entirely certain whether it was enough for you to succeed at Hogwarts. Given what I know of you personally, I believe that, if you so wish, you'll almost certainly be able to gain a wand of your own and learn the magical arts, though I'm afraid it would most likely be far more difficult to learn than it would be normally."

For a moment, Sherlock merely gaped at her. Eventually, he turned enormously large eyes on John, the hope in them nearly crushing John's heart. He reached out so that he could entwine their fingers with his free hand. "It's up to you, love. I can try to teach you if you want to learn."

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered at the term of endearment, but he was nodding vigorously before John could even finish speaking. "I must. I have to at least try, if there's the chance…I need this, John. But you don't have to – "

"It would be my pleasure," John interrupted. "We can pop by Ollivander's after we empty out my flat and get all of my things settled back into 221b."

"You're moving back?" Sherlock's voice was quietly incredulous and the sound caused John to chuckle. He shifted his hand from his to Sherlock's collar to pull him in for a quick peck on the lips.

"You adorable sod, of course we're moving back." His expression turned briefly uncertain. "As long as you'll have us, of course."

"You will always have a place at Baker Street, John Watson." He laid one hand on John's waist and the other on Cecelia's head, eyes darting between the two faces that looked up at him. "Both of you."

John's face turned bright with a promising grin. "Well then. I suppose we're off then. Thanks Neville, Professor, really. You've been fantastic through all of this."

McGonagall pulled John into a hug before doing the same to a startled Sherlock. Before releasing him, she pulled his ear down to whisper into it with a stern yet warm tone. "You take care of our John, Mr. Holmes. And don't let him slip away from us this time."

He met John's eyes over her shoulder. "Never, Professor. This will certainly not be our last endeavour in the wizarding world, not when there's so much to learn." She gave his cheek an affectionate pat and showed them off. John snatched up Sherlock's hand almost immediately after he bent to grab their bags, squeezing it hard in affection. Their grins remained solidly fixed on each other's faces as they made their way back into Hogsmeade, Cecelia babbling at them as they walked. As soon as they were past the barrier, John wrapped a tight arm around Sherlock's waist and they Apparated home.

~The End~