A/N: Sorry for the oh-so-dramatic "cliffhanger" attempt of the last chapter, but I just couldn't resist. Anyway, here's the next and FINAL instalment! Also, sorry for the delay, but I couldn't sign in to fanfiction for some reason- accursed technology blip.

Holmes

It is absolutely certain. I am about to be hit.

My limbs are suffering from acute...yes, fear. So, this is what it takes for the Great Detective's blood to "run cold".

His hand grasps the front of my jacket, and I steel myself with what little backbone I have left.

My eyes won't close. They just won't.

This may well be the last time that Watson will meet my gaze.

I intend to savour it.

Watson

He brought it on himself.

I'm not sure which impulse was stronger. It may well have been the more damaging.

It's always bloody Holmes.

That expression of...fear. It must be fear.

My anger demands that I make him pay for the agony in my soul; my affection insists that I make him feel safe again.

Holmes.

Oh, he must know I could never hurt him.

To a bystander, I can't help thinking that it would have looked rather a lot like a headbutt.

Not very accurate.

His eyes are still open, staring into mine. What little I can see of his face from such close proximity might as well be some obscure type of tobacco ash, for the all the deductions I can make about his thoughts.

He locks me into an embrace, eyes slipping shut just as mine do. My hand slides from the front of his jacket to his shoulder.

Pain? Anger? Regret? Guilt? Joy?

I'm not quite sure what I'm feeling. Not yet. The sight of him, the scent of him, the taste of him- never leave. Words are insufficient. I lied to him in that regard.

"Watson." The word is a sob- a true outpouring of relief and affection, muffled by my shoulder, where his head now rests.

"Holmes."

"You were- are...You are not angry?" For answer, I run a hand gently over the hair at the nape of his neck and upwards across the back of his head, stroking the strands between my fingers gently. Silk does not compare. The odd glint of snow in amongst the onyx strands catches my eye, and I continue to brush them gently away. "But- you- I would never make this into an experiment, Watson."

I make some kind of shushing sound, intent upon my arguably bizarre smoothing action, but he tears his head from my shoulder, removing the distraction, calling my eyes back to his own.

"No. You must never doubt upon that point, John Watson. Never."

I nod. "And vice versa." He smiles, and I realise that I have been doing the same for quite a considerable time. I must look almost drunk on elation.

Neither of us needs to say what "that point" is.

It would be...unnecessary to do so.

But I should like to hear it all the same.

Holmes

As the familiar scent of Watson's hair product fills my nostrils, I begin to suspect that there is some manner of alluring, addictive substance in it. I shall certainly never be content again in its absence. Life shall be pale and dry without it.

Just as the earthy, golden-tinted brown of his hair is also a necessity for a continued existence.

In fact, I do believe I am wholly dependent upon his continued presence to stand even a chance of survival.

Very little has changed.

"Out of interest Watson, what precisely did you say to put my brother in such an insufferably smug mood?"

His chuckle is muffled as he rests against me, head just beneath my chin. I dip my head to lock us together, or for some other peculiar instinctive reason that cannot be explained in any other way than 'it seemed the thing to do'.

"Oh, that I was only waiting for the opportunity to ravish you."

This mischievous side of Watson is one I have not seen nearly often enough during our acquaintance, and I hope this shall alter dramatically forthwith. I feel I ought to respond, perhaps declaring that some great beauty of nature pales in comparison with his features, or some not entirely false statement about the ferociousness of my affection.

Unfortunately, I believe the shock might kill him.

"What a coincidence." I smirk into his hair, contemplating whether it would be frightfully ungallant of me to snatch another kiss. For some reason, again I cannot entirely define it, our earlier kiss has been rather preoccupying my mind. Naturally, I am able to think of other things, but it is rather similar to the effect produced when one has forgotten something important, crucial even, and cannot yet recollect the mishap. Most illogical.

"Holmes, my dear chap, I really thought- for a moment, I was almost going to hit you." How he manages to make the shift from resting his head under my chin to tipping my head down with a thumb in one seemingly fluid motion is beyond me. He examines my face as one might a dearly loved bear, for signs of pain that he knows cannot be there. The good doctor has always been too concerned about my health.

"Indeed, my dear Watson, and you may attain universal renown for evoking terror in the world's only consulting detective."

His grin is obscured as our noses touch, and I feel his breath on my chin- not an unpleasant feeling in any way. "Is there a badge?"

As much as I should ordinarily love to, continue the joke, my compartmentalised wit has been pushed aside for an entirely new set of responses. "Perhaps..."

Neither of us has moved. I suppose it is my turn? Is this how the matter of initiating kissing works?

Alas, it is not one of the subjects upon which I have penned a monograph.

Resisting the temptation to lick my lips, I raise my left hand, previously- Oh, as if its previous position is of any relevance! – to run my fingers along the side of Watson's neck and rest with his jawbone cushioned gently by my palm. Why I should feel compelled to treat Watson's bone akin to china is not forthcoming, but it does not irritate him so it is not a present concern. If anything, he leans into the touch, head tilting slightly to his right, enabling our noses to avoid an awkward imitation of railway coaches being connected. This is becoming a very enjoyable pastime.

We do not pull away far. This is apparently acceptable, and I find no fault with it.

"Is there anything you cannot do?" Watson chuckles, and at his audible breathlessness my pride swells. I did not intend such a term euphemistically.

"It is no great measure of skill on my part, John. It can only be a result of your innate kissable qualities."

I find myself tipping backwards, shoulders connecting with the door. It is not overly forceful, but a clearly audible thump. Let brother Mycroft infer what he will. A hand at the back of my head prevents any slight pain, and I find the position uncommonly comfortable. Watson pulls back more quickly, his eyes darker than I have ever seen them. I believe this to be a good sign. The vehemence is also a positive rather than negative action.

"I hope, for both of our sakes, that you never say something like that when we have company." John's words are punctuated by slight pants. "I cannot vouch for my restraint...Innate kissable qualities- how, Sherlock, does that possibly have such an effect?" Despite being addressed to me, I cannot help feeling that the question is purely rhetorical. I suppose he alludes to my apparently stoic comment being interpreted, quite correctly, as rather more lustful. "My dear Sherlock, I know you don't need me to say it, but by..." he struggles for an appropriate oath. "Sherlock, I am irrationally and irrevocably in love with you."

To hear such words spoken is...different than I had imagined. They are no longer pure fact, but something...more. I cannot explain it; find out for yourselves, whoever 'you' might be.

"The former, I had discerned." I acknowledge, straightening my spine slightly but remaining propped against the door like a pale, gangly ladder. "The latter, I could but hope for."

He understands. He understands that this is my equivalent, my match for his words of love. He moves to kiss me again, but this time I hold up one finger, halting him. "I- One moment." I compose my thoughts, and observe his bewildered countenance, tinged with hope and fear. Or maybe it is my vision which is tinged with hope and fear. Intriguing.

"My dear John, I can only state the fact that without you I cannot feel, and with you I cannot speak for feeling."

My Boswell always understands, and in this instance, no doubt far better than I do.

An instant later, my hands glide up to his face once more, thumbs brushing away two swift, warm tears.

Cold seeps through my very soul. Oh, how delightfully poetic of me. "Watson-"

"Holmes." Then I notice his smile. "I am quite overcome."

Relief spreads through me, and I shut my eyes for a second. As I open them, Watson reaches out a hand, one finger extended, and delicately wipes below my left eye. A glistening dampness clings to his forefinger, and I very nearly gape at it.

Warm arms encircle me, and I slide my own around his back, each head resting on the other's shoulder. A Scotland Yard inspector, or any other individual utterly blind to deduction, might have thought us bereaved. They would not guess that this was quite the opposite; an end to bereavement.

Watson pulls away and wipes his face a final time upon a handkerchief. "Holmes."

"Watson."

He nods in the direction of the door. "Shall we?"

"Onward as ever, my dear Boswell."

With a flicker of a smile, he throws my coat and scarf to me from the table where he deposited them earlier - how long earlier, I cannot be sure – but it becomes a fully-fledged smile as he tucks the envelope and letter therein into his inside breast pocket. Silently, in my own mind, I repeat the phrase "I love you", toying with it, investigating the reverberations it produces. For a moment, something in his expression seems to suggest- no. I am not developing a taste for the fanciful.

As I pull on my coat and scarf, Watson strolls past me to the door I entered by. Turning back with his hand on the brass knob, he smirks, catching my attention, and mouths the words straight back to me.

For a moment, I indulge my taste for the fanciful notions of mental links. However, excluding this impossibility, there is another hypothesis which fits the facts; that I have been so far distracted as to not control the negotiations between my mind and lips adequately. A faint heat popping into my cheekbones, I avert my gaze swiftly, but too slowly to miss Watson's exaggerated impression, gently mocking me. He swings the door inward and gestures for me to go first; I give a great show of hauling my dignity together before doing so.

I do not move very far into the hall and Watson stands directly behind me, his back touching the door he has just shut. Unfortunately, my plan for revenge is cut short by a call from the library opposite, where the door is ajar.

"Sherlock! Have you taken leave of your manners as well as your senses?"

The gruff but jovial tones of my brother awaken a slight guilt and reluctant thankfulness, prompting me to heed his summons. Pushing open the door, I find him half-hidden behind three different red boxes, all in varying stages of decay. Despatch boxes, no doubt crammed with all the government information for the Christmas closure. Everything from unemployment to ink pot orders.

"I was not given chance!" I object, theatrically waving my hands upward as I drop into a chair opposite him. He immediately stands and extends a hand to Watson, who is lingering near the door.

"Doctor Watson, I am indebted to you."

He accepts the handshake, suspicion in his stance – if you must know the details, his weight lingered on his back leg as he stepped forward to accept the handshake, displaying an unwillingness to either extend contact or trust my brother with more of his weight (as anyone who has ever been pulled over by a jesting colleague in such a manner should understand), and suggesting that he was likely to take a step back as soon as possible, as he did. I endeavour not to appear too smug as he loiters little more than five inches from my left side, or as he leans an elbow on the side of the chair I am currently occupying.

Mycroft's expression clearly displays that I have failed, but the predominant expression is one of beguilement. He does look uncommonly like father on some occasions.

Seeing that Watson has not understood, Mycroft continues in a warm tone - affected, I thought, but not insincere – he was attempting to make his sincerity plain to one outside of the family. Those "outside of the family" tend to have a habit of suspecting that we are all secretly sarcastic. "I mean to thank you for your support of Sherlock and for enduring the tedious facade that was necessary, to ensure that he did not have time to devise an excuse for his letter. Frankly, it would have led to more running around in circles than I can bear to contemplate."

Watson shifts slightly beside me – being a former soldier, his posture is always rather firm, but I shall not dwell on that at present – and I notice a smile break across his face out of the corner of my eye.

"It would indeed." With only slight hesitation, his hand slips from the back of the chair to my shoulder. There is no acknowledgement of this, but I cannot help feeling as though I am being prepared for some manner of family portrait.

Stepping out from behind his desk, my brother fixes his gaze on the carpet for a moment before speaking again. "Are you of a mind to head straight back to Baker Street?"

Neither of us speaks, questioning quite what our decision would have been. My own notion had been of finding anywhere remote and spending a decent interval acquainting myself with Watson more fully.

"I only ask because I am in a very grave situation." He turns away from us, hands clasped behind his back.

I heave a sigh of exasperation, but I am cut off as my brother speaks again.

"Very grave indeed. My housekeeper quite insists upon preparing an entire turkey for Christmas dinner tomorrow, and I am quite certain that I cannot possibly manage it all by myself, nor can I stand the prospect of two weeks of cold turkey sandwiches."

He turns to face us again, a full-bodied grin upon his features, which combines with his white sideburns to produce a truly Yuletide effect.

Mycroft and I have always been able to amuse each other, and my childhood returns to me in an instant as laughter bursts from my mouth. I swing myself up from the chair, stride across and clasp my brother's hand.

"My dear brother...it has been too long."

A tinge of regret crosses his face, but only I notice, as I alone know what to look for.

Darting back to Watson, I fling an arm around his shoulders in an outpouring of elation and Yuletide vigour. "This is quite the predicament, is it not Watson?"

"Grave indeed." He shakes his head with an exaggerated slowness. "I am certain that this matter requires our full attention."

"Perhaps not quite full, but very nearly." I mutter into Watson's ear and his cheeks omit a slight redness.

"Excellent!" Mycroft declares, ringing the grey bell-rope I remember from childhood. A particular evening's entertainment had consisted of swinging on it, and had resulted in three grazed knees. Not all were mine, obviously.

His butler arrives as if from nowhere, smoke gushing into human form then floating onward, waiting for the call.

"Stanley, do show Doctor Watson and my brother up to their room."

The man could only be Mycroft's butler, as he bats not one eyelid at the singular accommodation. "Of course sir." We follow his sweeping form up two flights of stairs and along to the western side of the house. Far enough away to avoid disturbing anyone, I note.

"Your suitcases are at the end of your bed, sirs. Will there be anything else?"

I am heartily tempted to ask him for something unspeakably indiscreet, purely to see if he should bat an eyelid.

"Not at the moment, thank you Stanley."

Stanley departs, and I shoot John a reproachful look.

"You had a conniving glint in your eye." John turns his back on me and heads to the suitcases. "As if the poor man is not already stretched to the limits of discretion."

Opening his suitcase, he frowned. "These are my clothes. And my suitcase. How did these get here?"

"Mycroft." I replied, waving a hand lazily. "You forget, my dear, that he is Jupiter."

Sly as a fox, I snake my arms around his neck as he sits on the bed, peering at the case.

"What time is dinner, do you suppose?"

"Seven fifteen. It has been since time immemorial."

"Always?"

"Oh, since the crusades, I should imagine." I remove my head from his shoulder and loosen my arms slightly. "Mycroft is a creature of habit, if you recall."

"And it is five thirty now."

"Indeed."

"How convenient."

The room spins on its axis as Watson spins around in my arms, grabs me by the front of my coat and rolls with me onto the bed. The case slams shut as it connects with the carpeted floor.

Watson's hands press down on my shoulders as he towers over me on his hands and knees.

"If I may say, my dear John, you are looking incredibly conniving at present." My voice is rather more breathless than I'd expected; air hitches in my throat.

"I should hope so." His voice has not always been on such a low note, of that I am certain.

He unbuttons the top of my coat gently, unwinding my scarf from my neck and flinging it to the floor. He takes a moment to remove his own and I sit up swiftly, running my fingers through his hair as our lips meet.

I am astonished to find my mouth yielding before my mind gives it permission to do so, and flick my own tongue between John's teeth; he gasps at the intrusion, but I doubt he is surprised. I fling my leg over his and roll us back, seeking to reverse the power balance I unconsciously permitted. As enjoyable as it was, I shall not give in without a fight.

This bed is not big enough, alas. As I roll over too far, leg still locked around John, my back meets with air rather than mattress, and I am forced (not that it is a trial of any sort) to wrap my arms around Watson and cling like some manner of limpet as he struggles to remain on the bed. With a heave, he yanks me to his chest, where I cling like an infant to its mother, and rolls us sideways until I am resting atop him, safely on the bed.

"So determined to have the upper hand." Watson laughs, exhales and speaks simultaneously, and as his chest heaves beneath my hands, I realise I am still clinging to him.

I also have no particular inclination to let go.

Our heads are resting at the foot of the bed, with my arms locked around his torso, legs entangled; my head rests somewhere in the region of his throat. He plants a kiss on the top of my head and, as I am suitably distracted in seeking his mouth, brings his knees up and flips us. My head lands on a pillow and I am shaken from his chest by the unexpected movement.

"Element of surprise." I mutter, petulantly. John graces me with an indulgent smile.

"I have heard it said that it is crucial in catching hardened criminals."

"You believe me a hardened criminal?"

"A joke in very poor taste."

Any retort I was on the brink of devising is obliterated by Watson's lips upon my own; the most effective silencer.

For a while, at least, I am content to let him have the upper hand.

Naturally, I am only lulling him into a false sense of security.

As he pulls away to continue removing my coat – whatever possessed me to put it back on has a very cruel sense of humour – I lean upwards, assisting in its removal and take advantage of the moment to whisper something very important into Watson's ear.

Very little has changed.

A/N: And that's it! If you liked it, I've got a couple more on my profile, and may write up the Christmas meal itself; that might be fun. However, if you've a better idea, please PM me and I'll see what I can do!