The End

Appreciation

Sherlock doesn't appreciate much in life. John knows this, not that he's worried, the detective makes sure to let him know that he cares. Whether it be a warm cup of tea left on his bed side table in the mornings or a small smile that was something kept only for John.

However, there where times when John hasn't felt like the detective needs him. Maybe that he's ... Perhaps... Dragging the man down? He's often thought about why the hell the detective even wants to take him out on cases. He personally doesn't think he's contributed anything towards the final result. Sherlock's mind is like the sun. When they walk into the room where a dead body is lying the detective speaks and light shines over the evidence. John's considers himself the moon, his dim light explaining the medical factors of the story and then creeping back behind the clouds.

John knows that Sherlock knows his feelings. Because after all, when doesn't Sherlock know what's occurring in the Doctors head?

So it was no surprise when he returned from the surgery to find Sherlock pacing back and forth, John's favourite mug in his hands and the tea inside slopping back and forth.

John cant help but smile as the cup is thrust at him and the doctor is directed towards his arm chair.

He watches in an amused fashion as Sherlock moves from place to place like a mouse, brining Johns book and lighting the fire place to warm up the flat.

When Sherlock asks if the doctor has slippers John cant help but laugh. He reaches out and grabs the mans hands, squeezing tightly and smiling up at Sherlocks silver eyes.

His face expressing what his heart is feeling.

You can stop now, I understand... And thank you...

The detective seems to immediately relax and lets that smile grace his face again. That one smile that John cant resist. Their hands don't break apart as John gets to his feet and rests his forehead on the taller mans shoulder.

They've never been the types to say those words that couples whisper in darkened rooms. They have they're own ways of letting one another know how much they care.

John likes it this way.

Because this is Sherlock, never one for conventionality. To John actions speak louder then words.

And as Sherlock leads him towards their room he cant help but smile.

Because that's the way they both like it.

Coldness

The cold nights when Sherlock's gone are the worst. The detective mumbled something about Mycroft and hurried out the door pulling on his coat as he did so. John had watched from the window as the dark figure merged with the shadows of London along with the other mysterious folk of the city.

As John lies in bed staring at the ceiling and wondering what had been so important that his flat mate was willing to lay aside his brotherly feud and pay the older Holmes a visit he cant help but feel the flats chilling emptiness creeping around his room.

Go to sleep John, you have work tomorrow!

There is no point in staying up. Sherlock will come home and return to what used to be his room. John secretly likes to think it was so he wouldn't wake the sleeping doctor.

However, he suspects it has more to do with John's no laptop in bed rule.

He stretches his arms above his head and yawns.

Damn Sherlock, keeping me up with out even been here...

But then he smiles. Because having someone that keeps you up with out been around means that you have someone important.

That, John decides, is well worth staying up for.

John smiles again and closes his eyes contentedly, imagining Sherlock was there, his arms protectively lying across his hips.

Although it wasn't the same it made him smile. Because he knows tomorrow night it will be a reality.

The room is still cold but John's heart beats with a comfortable warmth.

Gifts

Christmas Eve creeps up on John like a panther after it's prey. He cant help but feel confused. After all, his current predicament is a puzzle. No decorations adorn 221B Baker Street, it smells the same (no baking or turkey in the oven)... So the question remains, does he give Sherlock the present he's brought or does he treat tomorrow like any other in the strange and misshapen world that is his life?

John decides to wait. Wait and see what the results of tomorrow morning will bring. Perhaps the detective isn't even aware what tomorrow is? Of course, John knows better then to doubt Sherlock Holmes.

He's a woken at five o'clock Christmas morning to the sound of cursing and mumbling from down stairs. The doctor decides to go see what's going on.

John pulls on a t-shirt and hurries out of his room and towards the kitchen. The sight that meets him makes his eyes widen.

A hastily put up Christmas tree stands delicately by the fire place, decorations carefully and yet messily applied. A Christmas candle is lit on the desk filling the room with a sweet smell of cinnamon and oranges.

Sherlock Holmes, the worlds only consulting detective, is standing still. Peering at John with wide eyes as if he's been caught shoplifting. Tape hangs from his mouth in a way that makes John smile and a half wrapped gift is clutched in his hands.

John wants to run and hug the detective as close as he possibly can, because this isn't for Sherlock, it's for him. It's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for him. Sherlock clearly isn't one for tradition or celebration. The newly opened box that contained the tree proves as much. Brought. Brand new. Simply for the doctors happiness.

Sherlock smirks nervously at him and tries to shrug off the situation.

Merry Christmas John.

The doctor's face is alight with a vast grin as he runs back to his room, grabbing the gift he's gotten Sherlock and running back to join his flat mate in the living room. He thrusts it at him, a child like excitement pulsing through his vains. Sherlock gingerly takes it and goes to shake. He stops when Johns face turns into an expression of sheer panic.

Ah, breakable...

With swift and eager anticipation he pulls at the boxes red ribbon and allows it to fall to the floor in silence. The lid is lifted and he raises an eyebrow.

In the comfort of his...no... Their, home he reaches in and pulls out a pocket watch. The detective peers at John with a confused gaze. John smirks, egging him on, so Sherlock places his finger tip on the watches button and pushes. It opens with a swift click and its Sherlock's turn to be surprised.

Smiling back at him is a picture of John and himself. He hadn't even been aware such a thing existed. It would appear it was at Molly's leaving party.

They where peering into each others eyes, smiling those smiles. The ones they only keep for each other.

It's perfect.

No, it's beyond perfection. The detective smiles and closes the gift, placing it in his shirt pocket and liking how it feels. The heaviness over his heart is a warming comfort and the soft ticking beats along with him.

Where ever I am, he is with me.

The detective pushes his gift towards John, the wrapping still not completed.

John likes it like that. It's so... Sherlock.

He gratefully picks it up, allowing the paper to fall to the floor along with the blood red ribbon.

A ring box? John secretly wonders if there was something repulsive inside like a finger or eyeball. Much to his surprise he couldn't have been more wrong.

A silver ring.

It shines at him and causes his heart to stop for a moment. The doctor glances at Sherlock's left hand and notices a similar ring.

No... This wasn't any sort of proposal. This was simply their way of stating the obvious...

You are mine and I am yours...

John plucks the ring from its box and puts it on.

It felt right, like it should have always been there.

For the first time since moving into 221B Baker Street John wants to cry.

Because this is the happiest moment of his life.

And judging by the look of Sherlocks face its his to.

Panic

Sherlocks running, his breath tight in his lungs and face red and damp with perspiration. John's been hurt and at the moment everything seems like a dream, the people he passes don't matter, the building he's in is of no concern. All he cares about is John.

John Watson.

His John...

The phone call had come twenty minutes or so ago. John had seen her, a small girl in the middle of a road. The car had been coming. It wasn't going to stop... He'd run... Pushed her... Been hit...

Please... Please let him be okay...

The woman on reception calls after him but Sherlock doesn't stop, the pounding of his feet echos through the hall ways.

Then he see's him, he almost ran straight past the room.

Wires... Oh god the wires!

John is hardly recognisable through the machines and people that surround him, his tanned face black and blue, his neck harnessed in a plastic brace.

This isn't happening... This isn't happening...

Sherlock walks in and peers around, it's like the world is going in slow motion. It doesn't seem real, like he's watching the scene through a vast fog. Everything else in irrelevant except the distant beeps from the heart monitor next to him.

Next to John.

He stands in the doorway, heart pounding and eyes wide.

It's just like before... Just like with her...

Please don't let this end like... Like... Like Hope.

All sherlock's hearing is the beeping, all he's seeing is John.

In reality and in his mind.

John happily placing the silver ring on his finger...

Johns eyes closed and bruised...

John pressing his face into Sherlocks chest and breathing deeply...

Johns breathing being controlled by a machine...

Johns kisses...

Johns touch...

Johns voice...

John...

Why... Why is the beeping slowing?

Why are they yelling?

THIS ISN'T HAPPENING!

He's lost control, tries to run to him, hold him, beg him.

John, don't leave me! Please...

Alone

He's standing outside the flat, peering at the door and not wanting to go in. Because he wont be there. His things will be. Jumpers, books, half finished cups of tea.

But not him.

Mrs Hudson comes to the door, her eyes red and swollen. She goes to hug him but he takes a step back and peers at her. Sherlock doesn't want to be touched. The last person who held him was John and he wants to keep it that way.

Wordlessly the detective wonders past the old woman and silently enters the flat. It smells like him. John. One of his jumpers is slung across his favourite arm chair.

Sherlock isn't crying. He knows he should be. That's the norm... But no, he isn't crying.

He's dead inside.

Silently he wonders over, grabs John's jumper and curls up in the chair, breathing in the scent that he needs so much.

Some day soon the chair would stop smelling like this. The deep musk, the faint scent of tea and, best of all, pure John Watson.

The thought makes Sherlock want to throw up. Break things. Scream. Make this pain go away.

He doesn't want to feel like this.

Sherlock's minds buzzing with idea's, thoughts and images that cause him to close his eyes.

John... Hope...

The only people he's ever cared for.

John... He couldn't be... He wasn't...

Dead.

The detective pulls the jumper tighter to his chest and allows his head to fall forward into the soft comfort of the fabric.

John's gone and it makes him want to rip his own heart out because feeling it beating under his skin makes him feel far to alive.

His phone rings in his coat pocket but he ignores it.

What's the point anymore?

John isn't there to smile at his excitement over a new case.

He isn't there to run out of that door with him.

He isn't there to stop him from conducting experiments in the kitchen.

He isn't there to hold at night.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut.

A single tear roles down his pale cheek, lazily dripping onto the woollen jumper below.

Because John isn't there.

Time

The clock ticks, the world continues and outside passers-by know nothing of the goings on in 221B Baker Street. Or lack of.

The phone rings, people knock at the door. It isn't what Sherlock wants. The world outside no longer matters. The people, the places, they are all completely irrelevant.

Everyday he climbs out of Johns bed and wonders down stairs, making tea in Johns mug and sitting in the doctors chair. He can sit there for hours staring at the photo that John had given him on Christmas day all those months ago.

He closes the pocket watch and clutches it to his chest.

He'd never expected this to happen. To ever meet someone who could effect him in such away, destroy his mind, soul and heart.

John Watson had been that someone. The one person out there who could ever complete him, understand him, make him feel.

He'd never said those three little words to John. That wasn't who they where and wasn't who they would be. They weren't the types for declarations of affection. They did it through touch, through looks. But now those touches and looks couldn't be given nor received.

For the first time in his life Sherlock wished he'd said it. Just once. He wanted the doctor to know, to really know, how much he meant to him.

Sherlock freezes. He freezes and peers at the chair he's sat on. He leans forward and breathes in deeply.

Johns smell...

It's gone. Months of Sherlock and dust have taken away the thick, dream like aroma that Sherlock craves so much.

And despite the fact that loosing that scent shatters him beyond belief he smiles.

Because now he knows it's time.

Time to take flight.

Freedom

Sherlock's standing on top of Barts hospital. Getting to the roof was easy enough, they're all used to seeing him there.

The breeze is ruffling his hair, chilling his weak body to it's very core.

But despite the cold and despite what he's about to do Sherlock is smiling. A calm smile, his closed eyes enjoying the cooling sensation of the wind.

He wraps his arms around himself and squeezes tightly. He's wearing the only jumper left that smells of John and the feel of it against his skin makes him want to curl up in a ball and just touch the fabric that he associates with the doctor.

But no, he's here for a reason and when Sherlock puts his mind to something he makes sure it happens.

The detective reaches into his coat and feels the heavy pocket watch, cold against his skin. The watch stopped ticking days ago. Not that Sherlock cares. He doesn't have the watch for time checking. He has it for John's smiling face.

He pulls his coat tighter around himself and lets out a sigh of anticipation.

A step forward.

The stars above him twinkle and Sherlock thinks back to times spent with John peering up at that sky whilst walking through the city together.

Another step.

The hospital below him, where they met for the very first time.

Another step.

The watch. The jumper. The smell of him.

Another step.

He's falling, the air pushing his hair from his face, his coat billowing behind him revealing the lambs wool jumper beneath.

He hears someone screaming as the ground gets closer. He doesn't care. He just wants it to end, to stop the pain.

The watch is clutched in his hand tightly, open, his fingers touching Johns face.

The last thing he see's is the doctor. Smiling at him, his nose wrinkling up in the way Sherlock adores.

Then it ends.

And the world is black.

Them

Sherlock wakes up and finds himself stood in the middle of 221B Baker Street. He looks around and frowns. Had it all been a dream? No... He didn't think so. Then what was going on?

You bloody fool!

He freezes, because he recognizes that voice. He knows it well, from many moons ago. A light and cheerful voice. A voice that sounds like a smile. He spins, slowly and fearfully.

Hope...

She's there, grinning at him and shaking her head.

Foolish man!

He walks towards her, hands out stretched and shaking. Her cheek is warm, as he remembers it.

His sister...

His sister...

She giggles at him and bats his hand away.

What where you thinking?

Sherlock doesn't know what to do. Should he call a psychiatrist? He's certain he's lost his mind. But Hope is stepping forward and placing a kiss on his cheek. Her lips are warm. This isn't a dream. It's real... She takes a step back, her long dark hair falling in front of her smiling pale face.

We've waited for you...

Sherlock freezes and watches through shocked eyes as she walks to the front door, peering back at him with a wink and a smile before leaving. The room around him is suddenly very silent. He looks around and blinks at the surroundings that are so familiar to him. Full of memories.

Sherlock...

He spins around again.

Freezes once more.

If he where breathing it would have caught in his throat and chocked him.

Because he's there...

Standing at the foot of the stairs.

It's... It's really him...

John...

The name feels like honey on his tongue. The man in front of him smiles and takes a tentative step forward.

What the hell have you done you idiot...

It isn't said maliciously spoken. It's said with affection and happiness.

Sherlock takes a step forward, closing the distant between them. He reaches out, hands shaking more then when Hope was in front of him. He places them on each side of John's face.

It's warm and... Just perfect.

John... Is this real?

John chuckles.

Unbelievably so.

Sherlock freezes. He cant comprehend what going on. It's all he's ever wanted.

They both lean towards each other, their lips fitting together perfectly. Sherlock allows a happy sigh to escape his mouth, joining John's.

It's like he's died and gone to heaven.

They're moving towards the stairs, tears and kisses merging into one passionate pulse of emotion. Johns room is exactly how he remembers and it makes Sherlock so happy. Nothings changed here. Nothings changed.

Exactly how I like it...

They fall together, clutching each other tightly. The bed is soft beneath them and everythings just how they both want it to be.

Outside the stars in the sky shine brilliantly down on them as if they know that this is their moment to show what they can do.

They touch and smile and just feel what they've missed, the world around them is nothing.

Sherlock thinks back through what they've been through and realises it's all been leading up to this.

This eternity together.

They lie together, happy and exhausted. Hands clutching one another tightly. Not wanting to let the other go for a second.

In the morning Sherlock wakes up alone and feels a cold dread settle on his stomach. He dresses and wonders down stairs, praying that this wasn't all some wonderfully real dream.

But no, Johns there. Sat at the kitchen table with Hope, each with a cup of tea clutched happily in their hands. They turn as he enters and smile. Brilliant smiles that Sherlock recognises and is so glad to see again that it hurts.

He stands for a second, pinching himself to just make sure this real.

Real... This is really real...

He smiles slightly and walks over, sitting next to John and opposite his sister. John grabs his hand under the table and squeezes tightly.

The touch answering every question Sherlock has.

Just be happy Sherlock, not everything is explainable...

Sherlock nods at the silence and peers at Hope as she watches them happily.

So Sherlock smiles back and rubs his thumb against Johns.

It's all so wonderful and if it is a dream he hopes he never wakes up.

Because he wants this to be how it ends.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Just... This moment.

Perfectly content in what is around him.

It's the happy ending he never thought he'd have.

He smiles because this is just what he wanted.

It's The End.

A/N

Well, there it is. The last chapter in my series of drabbles. A little dark but I really hope you all enjoyed it. Please check out my tumblr, the address is on my profile :) I'm going to find Sherlock screen shots and post them along with segments from my drabbles so you can have a little look at what I'm picturing when I write a scene :)

Please check it out! Oh! And follow me on Tumblr to get updates on what I'm writing next :)

So, please let me know what you think! I'm actually quiet nervous about this one :/

Lots of love

WhiteLilly :)

xoxoxoxooxox