This next part is very jumbled and disjointed. Don't worry, I haven't lost my mind (well I say haven't) its on purpose. It's fragmented bits and pieces and if by the end you feel a little fuzzy and confused, then I've done my job properly. We are seeing things from a fevered mind, catching snippets in and out of consciousness. I hope it's not too ambitious.

In the six years since Kings, Sherlock Holmes had become. He was the worlds only consulting detective he was a renown genius, a first chair worthy violinist and a consultant for New Scotland Yard. He was also still very much in love. That had not changed in the least. And even tho he kept that love locked safely away in a richly appointed heavily guarded room, in the deepest recesses of his mind palace, it was still as strong and achingly beautiful as it had been all those years ago. Years ago, when he'd had the chance to tell John the truth of his heart. That's why he was sitting here now and had been for the past week, reading to John at his bed side, watching his weak struggle against the infection that ravaged his body. Sherlock felt utter heartbreak. Sherlock had followed John's military career over the years, and had known every step he'd made every special commendation, every promotion he'd turned down, lives he'd saved and those he'd lost. John had been a part of him every day. He'd come to the desert land with the hope that he had been a part of John all this time too. Funny how things change. Now Sherlock's only hope was that John live.

They say when you're dying your life flashes before your eyes. John wasn't sure that was entirely true. Because not a single thing passed through his minds eye except Sherlock Holmes. But then again perhaps it was. Sherlock had become his life in such a short time. When you find the person you are made to love, time becomes irrelevant. Boundaries fade and whats conventional becomes blurred. Love. Their love. It was the kind of thing that people wrote fluffy unbelievable stories about. Love that lives outside of normal confines. Love that would not conform, would not be put in it's place. Soul deep and unending. Till death...

Pain, cold and heavy wrapped around his bones. Why was he so cold?

"Infection. Fever. Severe. Damage to the left shoulder...auxiliary artery...

Voices tried to pierce through John's icy encasement.

*Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came tapping, and so faintly you came rapping at my chamber door. That I scarce was sure I heard you...*

Warm whispers. Drawing John up through the cold.

"Please John, get stronger." The words spread warmth.

Sherlock read from his tattered copy of Poe, for hours. Little sleep, less food. It didn't matter.

*"At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18—, I was enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my friend C. Auguste Dupin, in his little back library."*

Was it 1800 something? Is that why it's so cold? Is it cold? John's fever consumed brain searched for answers.

Doctors came and went. But Sherlock stayed. Irene convinced him to leave only once.

"It had to have been a sniper judging by the .338 Lapua Magnum round."

"How can you possibly know what kind of round it was?"

"It's my job to know."

Darkness and unrelenting cold tugged at John's limbs, begging him to stay.

But a warm rumble penetrated the cold from time to time. Had it been there since the start? John wanted to go wherever it was.

*"There the traveller meets, aghast,

Sheeted Memories of the Past-"*

Past. That sound. The sound of honey. Thick and sweet, heavy on your tongue. That sound was Sherlock.

John opened his eyes to a riot of black curls and porcelain skin. Familiar, but all wrong.

"Hello, there Dr. Watson." Irene offered a pretty red lipped smile. "Always a look of mild disappointment. Oh don't fret, he'll be right back."

"Get out." Sherlock said from the doorway and gestured for Irene to leave.

"Yes well before I go" Irene stood next to Sherlock in the door way "just let me say.." Sherlock rolled his eyes and shoved her out the door shutting it firmly behind her.

John sat himself up in the bed, in obvious pain but unhindered and just stared, more alive in that moment then he'd been in years. More afraid then he'd been on the battlefield and just as in love as the first day they'd kissed in uni.

The man had aged and it looked good on him. Skin made a warm gold by six long years in the relentless desert sun, and eyes that rivaled the Aegean Sea. God but he was beautiful.

"Say something." John's voice was a scratchy unused whisper.

Sherlock's smile spread across his face and he took a step toward the only thing in this world that could make him whole. Thats when the door burst open and three doctors pushed passed him forcing Sherlock to move to the corner of the room. Doctors poked and prodded and asked questions. How was John feeling? How was the pain? Did he want some water? And on and on. John nodded and answered automatically from a far off corner of his brain. His main focus, his only focus was Sherlock. They hadn't let go of each other's gaze, and John felt from across that buzzing room that they would never let go again. John reached the fingers of his left hand towards Sherlock, a small gesture hardly noticeable, but so full of longing. Hands by his side fingers splayed Sherlock did the same. They reached for each other. Across the room and across the years that had separated them. Nothing had changed. The men themselves may have, but the love they had for each other was a force unto itself, that time and distance could not touch. One by one the doctors filed out of the room, with each one that left Sherlock got a little closer. The last one left with a stern warning.

"He needs his rest. Please keep it brief."

Sherlock nodded, with no intention of leaving this mans side ever again. He stood just inch away now still unable to speak. All he could do was act on the flood of Dopamine, Norepinephrine and Serotonin threatening to overwhelm him.

"Sherlock." A long whisper. A plea, a statement of disbelief and the answer to all his prayers.

Sherlock hesitated at the edge of John's bed, fairly vibrating, fingers spidered up the bed sheet, he raised trembling hands to the sides of John's golden weathered face, and kissed him slow and familiar, like a lover coming home after a long absence.

"John, there's something I should say, I've meant to say always and I never have. I'm sorry...you're here in Afghanistan, it's my fault and..."

"Stop, just stop. You are the dumbest smart person I've ever met!" John ignored the look of shocked indignation and kept talking. "You think I joined the army to become a doctor, because that's all I ever wanted from life, well you're wrong. I joined the army with the singular hope that this bullet" John pointed to his shoulder and drew a line to his heart. "Would be ten inches to the right. I told you! To your face that all I wanted in this life was to be with you. Nothing more, but that brain of yours won't let you believe me. Now you've cost us six years. And I expect to be payed back, starting now."

"So you in fact do want to, that is we...you." Sherlock stammered, his way to understanding.

"I never want to be another day without you. So you tell me, where do we go from here?"

"221b Baker St. I've got a nice little flat, in central London, with a spare bedroom if you're interested."

"A spare room you say?" John raised an eyebrow.

"Yes." Sherlock gave a pretty smile.

"We won't be needing two." John reached for him again, for more kisses.

One Week Later

Egypt. In An Undisclosed Location

Sherlock wanted the first time he said 'l love you' to John to be perfect. He'd looked it up online and consulted countless websites on the most romantic ways to do it.

"Maybe if I loved you less I could talk about it more." That one was true, but not romantic in the lest.

"I love you to the moon and back." What on hell did the 477,710 mile distance have to do with love?

"I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you." What? That was just idiotic.

This was pointless. Sherlock knew he would never be good at the words so he decided to abandon the idea altogether. Perhaps it would just have to happen naturally as they say.

John on the other hand said the words like he was born to them. When they woke in the morning under the sheets together with the sunlight barely there, noses brushing lips a whisper away. "I love you." Midday over the rim of his tea cup. "I love you." And so so late into the night spent with a hint of Gaelic in his voice. "God how I love you."

So when the words came tumbling out of Sherlock's mouth for the very first time in a harsh jurky groan while he was riding John's cock like the devil, it was in fact perfect.