Hey! Sorry this has taken me aaaages! But I've finally finished it. Warning - extremely violent and very sappy. :)

Chapter Five

It had been 3 days since John had brought Sherlock home from the hospital, the journey back to the flat had acted as a sort of preview to the days that would follow; a painful, heavy silence loomed over them. Along with the anguish, confusion and exhaustion that they both felt, those three days were almost impossible to endure. John's brow was creased into a constant state of concern, and Mrs Hudson fretted endlessly over both of 'her boys'. Sherlock drew back into himself, barely eating or speaking or even making eye contact, but pacing, playing the violin and staring into space – it was almost as if everything had gone back to normal, except that he did not shoot at the fixtures, shout at the television or complain that he was bored… and when Lestrade visited he either wanted information or offered pointless condolences. There were no murder cases now, just long, long days filled with a dreadful, sickening silence.

John made several attempts to talk to Sherlock, to ascertain how he was coping, to ask if he needed anything. But it was all in vain; Sherlock spurned his attempts to 'baby him' as he put it, and told John to go back to his menial little job in the real world. It scared John how quickly Sherlock had gone from the quivering, weeping wreck in the hospital bed to the cold, aloof automaton he witnessed now.

He wondered if this was Sherlock pushing him away, as he had pushed Mycroft away all those years ago – this thought filled John with dread, he didn't want to become Sherlock's other "arch enemy". He even started to catalogue his blame, to seek out his own guilt – after all, he hadn't accompanied Lestrade in the search for Sherlock, he had just curled up into a ball and worried. He didn't even try. He felt so helpless; he couldn't assist Sherlock in any way, other than to force him to drink the occasional cup of tea.

Then, on the fourth day, his phone rang. Mycroft.

"I've found him."

"Mycroft!"

"I have him. He's secure, alone and untraceable. I'm sending a car. Bring whatever you think you might need."

Mycroft then hung up, John stood frozen to the spot in the middle of the living room floor. Everything seemed to be happening very slowly, his cognitive functions gradually building speed, his awareness that he was shaking with rage, relief… fear? His impulses, the crawling tingle of anticipation, the urge to scream - all burning beneath his calm exterior. Eventually he snapped into action and strode to his room to pull his boots on.

'Bring whatever you think you might need.'

He reached for his gun, considered the penknife for a moment, but decided against it in the end, he was going to kill him, hurt him, but he wouldn't stoop to his level.

He threw his jacket on and made his way towards the door.

"What will it solve John, killing him?"

He heard Sherlock's croaky, sleep broken voice behind him. Turning to face him he saw expression there for the first time in days, he just looked so tired, and sad. He considered lying to him for a moment before thinking better of it, Sherlock might be broken, but he could still read minds.

"I will never…" John began, walking towards him "rest until I know that he can never hurt you again." He spoke gruffly, and low – almost growling. They were standing so close now, faces almost touching, fear flickering through Sherlock's eyes, dogged determination though John's as he placed a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling his head down just enough to reach up on tip toes and plant a firm kiss on his temple. In a flash Sherlock grabbed John's other wrist, holding him in place and kissed him, fraught, his lips crushing against John's, he was trembling and it was a short-lived desperate kiss. John pulled away - bewildered, Sherlock ducked his head down, clearly dejected, hurt even.

Nothing was really making sense right now, John's rational side was trying to tell him that he was vehemently heterosexual, that Sherlock was just a friend and that he probably only kissed him because he was incredibly vulnerable at the moment and a million other reasons why John should fight his growing urge to kiss him back. But clearly John was in no mood to listen to his rational side; without giving it a second thought, and with what felt like the most normal and natural intention in the world, he gently tilted Sherlock's chin up and leaned in again, bestowing him with a soft, loving, lingering kiss before turning and practically running out of the door. He found himself outside quickly enough, and just as expected and unmarked car drew up and he got in, but not before glancing up at the window to see Sherlock staring down at him, his expression so unreadable, so… Sherlock

…

"Well this is nice – original. I like what you've done with the place Mr Iceman, very subterranean chic, very mind-numbingly predictable."

Mycroft glared down at Moriarty with disgust, how dare he even speak to him? How dare someone that evil even exist? It was taking all of his willpower not to get to work before John arrived.

"Sooo! It's been a while since I've been tied to a chair – I do love a bit of bondage… little bit of S and M, these are some pretty good knots – had a lot of practise?"

Mycroft looked around, trying to appear disinterested in Moriarty's pathetic little jibes. He had brought him to a bunker which only he and four other people even knew existed, being the government had its perks so to speak.

"You know, I don't know if he mentioned it, but I had your darling little brother all tied up in knots just last week… I never knew he was so… flexible –"

Mycroft's patience for John ran out and he turned to punch Moriarty in the face, breaking two fingers in the process. It was worth it.

"Hahahaahaha!" Moriarty laughed manically in response "So the games begin! And here was I thinking we'd have to wait around for the Holmes family lapdog! Aah speak of the devil – John, sex on legs – there you are! We've been waiting. Tell me, how's my little slut doing – can he still walk? You know he never phones-"

John had entered the room while Moriarty was in mid-sentence, and had immediately lost what little composure he brought with him, he walked briskly towards him, and placed a swift, hard punch to his gut.

Moriarty coughed and gasped but his spluttering breathes morphed into fits of hysterical laughter. John looked to Mycroft who looked gravely back at him.

"So what now then boys? What? You intimidate me, beat the shite out'a me, torture me, kill me – oh yawn - SERIOUSLY!" he began quietly, disinterestedly and suddenly shouted in that way of his that was always sure to put people on edge. "Boys! Predictable… so, disappointingly predictable. I'm bored already. Honestly what would Sherlock say?"

John grabbed one of his hands that was secured to the chair by the wrist and bent it back with one sharp, quick motion, immediately snapping his wrist in the process. It made a sickening cracking noise and Moriarty cried out slightly before biting his lip to silence himself. John lowered his face next his ear and spoke so quietly that Mycroft could hardly hear him.

"Yes. In answer to your question – we are going to torture you, we are going to kill you, and it may be predictable, you may be bored, but I am gonna fucking love this."

Moriarty turned his head and grinned at him and winked and John responded instinctually by headbutting him as hard as he could, causing the chair and Moriarty to topple over. He and Mycroft immediately set to work kicking him repeatedly in the stomach and ribs, in his head John clinically catalogued the ribs broken, organs ruptured and the extent of the internal bleeding that he was causing as he and Mycroft mercilessly hit him again and again.

They both stopped abruptly and hauled him and the chair upright again – though he was now clearly in an inordinate amount of pain, Moriarty still managed a sick smile. Mycroft took this as an opportunity to take his trusted umbrella and stab him in the foot with it and then punching him repeatedly in the chest with his good hand. John watched on as Moriarty would cough and intermittently laugh or hoarsely shout "MORE."

"Enough." John said at last.

Mycroft drew away, but not before delivering yet another sharp blow to his face, breaking some teeth and causing Moriarty to shut up for a moment.

"Enough." Mycroft echoed John.

John drew his gun from the small of his back and loaded it, Mycroft opened a case in the corner of the room and did the same.

"Together?" John said as they both aimed.

Mycroft simply nodded.

"Well *cough*… this is sweet." Moriarty said breathily. "How touching! Vengeance! Vengeance for the little slut – it's not like he isn't fucked up for life anyway. I broke him, hadn't you noticed. You know I always broke all my playthings as a child, it makes sense the same rules still apply."

John itched to pull the trigger, but waited, waited to hear him out. Somehow, he needed to hear this, he needed to wait till the exact right moment.

"So what? You both shoot me and then live happily ever after – the lapdog, the iceman and the virgin – oops! I can hardly call him THAT anymore now can I!" More manic laughter emanated from him before he coughed and spluttered, a little blood running from his nose. Suddenly his expression pooled into solemnity.

"Seriously though – you're going to shoot me? You two. What a sweet and heart-warmingly naïve thought. I mean really Mycroft –in your heart of hearts you know you can't get away with this, you might BE the government but these things have a way of popping their little head's up when you least expect it… aaand yooou knoooow iiiit! And John! Jesus John! The fact you haven't done it yet just serves to prove that you're not going to. What? You're sticking around to hear me say something so heinous that you just have to blow my brains out – ok – how about um, Sherlock's clearly just a whore? Sherlock screamed your name when I came into him? By the way, that's actually the God's honest truth. Uum, how about - I've stretched Sherlock out so much that when you finally get around to fucking each other I'll have well and truly spoiled the ride for everyone including you!"

John clicked the safety catch off and brought his second hand to join his first, steadying his aim.

"You see – if you're waiting around for reasons you got plenty – and look I'm still breathing."

"Then enjoy your last breath." John pulled the trigger and was immediately followed by Mycroft. Everything happened slowly then, not for the first time John and Mycroft both watched a man die at their own hands, but this time felt not even the tiniest smidgen of remorse. However his wounds were not instantly fatal and he writhed a little, gurgling, trembling. John was about to shoot again when suddenly another two shots rang out from behind them and he froze. For a moment he felt sure that he had been shot again, that this was it, but even in that split second, his eyes still locked on a writhing, dying, purely evil man – he knew that it was worth it. For Sherlock.

It slowly clicked in though, that he hadn't been shot and John spun round to see a tall figure silhouetted by the light in the open doorway behind him, gun in hand, still pointed neither at himself nor Mycroft but at Moriarty. As his eyes grew more accustomed to the light everything became clear.

"Sherlock!" He uttered walking towards him, seeing him more clearly now.

Sherlock slowly turned his gaze from the now thoroughly dead Moriarty to John. They each dropped their weapons, eyes locked, hearts pounding, unable to find any words. Sherlock reached a shaky hand out and touched John's face tentatively before he enveloped him in a fierce, desperate embrace.

…

Later, once they had gone home, once Mycroft had set about disposing of any evidence, once soft flakes of snow had begun to fall lightly on London, John's arms were, again, protectively wrapped around Sherlock. They were both lying on the sofa, face to face and John marvelled at how, despite the height difference, they fitted together so perfectly this way – Sherlock's head rested on one of John's arms whilst the other was strewn over his waist. One of Sherlock's hand's playing with his hair, the other holding him close, their legs entwined, their hips touching, their eyes locked together. He could feel Sherlock's breath and his mingling together, and he could smell Sherlock, that curiously wonderful smell of spices, nicotine and tea. He finally felt that he'd arrived at a place he was previously unaware he'd never been to before – home.

"John?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Yes?" John ran his fingers through Sherlock's soft, thick hair.

"You know that… everything… it isn't just ok now."

"I know." He sighed. "It's going to take time, a lot of time – and… Sherlock, you're going to have to be open with me, open with how you feel. Because… I'm going to be here, and I'm going to help you through this, because I want… I want a life with you – as a flatmate, as a friend… as more than that even."

John placed a hand flat against Sherlock's chest to feel his heart pounding rapidly beneath, betraying him.

"And I know you'll need to take this slowly – I will too, this is… sudden for me, very sudden in fact. But I don't think that I've ever been as sure of anything, ever. I love you Sherlock Holmes, so much, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

Sherlock looked up at John, his eyes glistening with tears and whispered "I love you too."