AN: First of all - MAJOR apologies are needed on my behalf for taking so long on getting this chapter up. But I'm glad you lovely reviewers have endured! I'm so thankful.

Second of all - last chapter! I've adored this fic, and I'm so proud of it. I'm thankful for each and every review, alert, and favorite. I cannot stop thanking you guys for that. I love you guys.

Third - this chapter IS titled "Taste", so the obvious will be coming if you did not get that hint earlier on. I have to admit this chapter is less angsty than the last ones and more gushy and 'awww'. I'm sorry to those I disappoint.

And I will shut up now!

So enjoy this freaking long chapter.

.oOo.

I didn't want to believe it – no, it all seemed like a bad dream. A horrid, disgusting nightmare. Even the gravestone set squarely in front of me, burrowed into the grass-covered ground with that exquisite name engraved upon it in bold letters, looked like a figment of my imagination. It didn't feel real to me. It felt like a scam – a fake.

Swallowing the lump forming inside my tight throat, I attempted to clear it, my eyes locking once again on the stone that so insisted to mock me. "Um…hm. You…you told me once…that you weren't a hero." I took a long, deep breath. "Um. There were times I didn't even think you were human. But…let me tell you this – you were…the best man..ah…the most human," I felt my throat tightening up again. "-human being that I've ever known. And no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. And so…" I licked my lips. "There."

I was supposed to feel accomplished, wasn't I? Now that I had said those words? Now that I had let lose all the things that I wanted to tell him that I never got the chance to?

No of course I wasn't. I didn't feel any better than I had been on the drive here. If it was possible, I felt worse.

My fingertips gently touched the cold stone in front of me and it hit me then like a punch to the stomach. This was all real – it wasn't a bad dream (as much as I hoped it to be). This. Was. Real.

I willed my feet to carry myself away from that horrid grave, clenching and unclenching my left hand as I did so. Dread settled over my entire body – but being the soldier I am, I turned around just as fast as I had left the grave, facing it once again. "There's just one more thing…one more…thing. One more miracle, Sherlock. For me." I shook my head.

"Don't…be…dead."

Bile rose up from the depths of my stomach and my voice raised a couple of octaves while I forced the rest of the words from my mouth. I licked my lips, but the taste was foreign to me. I would usually taste a faint hint of salt or maybe the leftover traces of tea. It had seemed as though my body was betraying me – shutting down.

After all, a heart without a brain is useless, right?

Little did the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes know that John's overall experiment was almost done and finished with. Mind you, the doctor was able to keep it hidden in the very, very corner of his mind while conducting the mini-experiments. He couldn't take all the credit though – John was doing this whole experiment on mostly instinct and such. Until now, he hadn't really considered it an actual process of breaking down the information and deducing it. But after some thought – yes, yes he had been experimenting. Sherlock might have been proud, if he knew. He didn't though, and John was apt to keep it that way.

In a way, the basic five senses of his body had taken over – a way to prove to his own brain that Sherlock was real, and that he was truly back for good. Hearing, of course was the first and foremost, obviously. Next were sight, smell, and touch.

"John, you're attempting to sort out your thoughts, I can tell. What's bothering you?" Sherlock's voice drawled from the kitchen. He was bent over his microscope, eyes still completely focused on whatever he was observing from the most recent case at hand.

In a quick (too quick?) response, the doctor cleared his throat. "It's nothing." He stood up and made his way across the room. A cuppa sounded nice right about now – something to clear his head and calm the bundled nerves that threatened to burst at a second's notice.

The detective didn't buy it, of course, but his focus remained steady on his experiment, mumbling a faint "hm" before once again drifting off into the depths of his mind, completely ignoring John.

It was absolutely fine, John thought as he continued making a cuppa. It just allowed him to venture further into his own thoughts.

The five senses, yes. He had trudged through four and already it felt more and more real that his consulting detective was back. Wait. Hang on a second. His consulting detective? When had he officially started to claim the other man as his own? A faint blush colored his face and he shook the ridiculous notions away. Sherlock was not his. And probably never would be, sadly.

Hang on again. Sadly? So he was hoping beyond hope that someday he could claim the detective as his own?

A long sigh interrupted the deep questions John was asking himself, and with a quick glance up he saw Sherlock staring at him intently. A look of annoyance was etched onto his features. "You're thinking too much. Would you mind doing it in the other room if you continue to insist on doing so?"

John licked his lips nervously and stirred his now-finished tea. "Fine. Do you want some?" He spluttered. "Tea! Tea I mean! Would you like some tea?" God, what was wrong with him?

A teasing smile touched the detective's lips as he suddenly took the cup from the doctor's own hands. Ignoring John's futile attempt to stop his actions, Sherlock took a sip only to hand it back immediately after. "Just a bit is good. I can't drink tea while working, remember?" His attention shifted from John to his microscope again.

John, however, was standing there with his cup looking like he had just been watching something extremely forbidden. His cheeks were now a rosy crimson shade, lips were pursed tightly together, and for some reason he couldn't take his eyes off that spot on his cup. For a moment he wondered whether he should just throw it in the sink – it was only one cuppa right? He could make another!

Somehow a rather frazzled John had made his way into the sitting room and settled down onto his comfortable and familiar arm chair, the cup still firmly placed in his two hands. The cup was tormenting him, urging him to press his own lips to the same side Sherlock's lips had just been.

Oh, for God's sake. It was just a cup!

And with that thought imprinted in his head, John took a gulp of the tea, only to forget it was extremely hot which ended up him choking on it a bit.

Was that mint toothpaste he tasted?

"John, please. It's for an experiment."

"Why don't you just experiment on your own damn self?"

"The calculations and the conclusion would be hardly the same! I have to do this test on another human being."

"So I'm going to be a test subject - your test subject?"

"Only for five minutes, John."

John tightly pursed his thin lips while assessing the consulting detective standing in front of him, the pale eyes practically pleading with him to allow such a ridiculous thing to take place. Of course, Sherlock did not think of it as ridiculous or embarrassing – he was only thinking scientifically. And why the hell couldn't John also think along those lines? No, instead it made the back of his neck grow hot. But as always, he complied. "Fine. Aren't you going to put on latex gloves though?"

Sherlock responded with an impatient roll of his eyes. "No, that would obviously tamper with the results. I actually need to do this with my own fingers."

John's face once again heated up at those words. If a random outsider was listening in to those certain words, a whole range of situations would most likely pop into their imaginable mind – how embarrassing! Before he could process another thought though, Sherlock leaned forward and touched John's bottom lip with his bare thumb, stopping his mind altogether. "Open your mouth, John."

The doctor obeyed and Sherlock slipped his index finger over the other man's tongue. John squeezed his eyes shut, his mind now racing with gibberish thoughts while his body grew incredibly warm.

It was for an experiment – definitely and solely for an experiment – so why was John getting all hot and bothered over such a little thing? Sherlock was obviously processing the information, storing it away, and not thinking at all about what it was doing to his poor blogger.

"Ah! Brilliant! This is called the median sulcus." Sherlock mumbled, running the tip of his finger along the middle of John's tongue. "It divides the convex dorsum of the tongue into symmetrical halves. And these-"

John heard Sherlock rattle off information, but the doctor clearly wasn't taking any of it in or processing any thought going through his head at the moment. All he could focus on entirely was the fact that Sherlock's fingers were roaming around on his tongue. Obviously the detective had washed his hands beforehand, but the taste was…well, John didn't know how to describe it. He tasted a hint of soap, yes, but there was more. It was just…Sherlock. The taste of Sherlock.

"-and this is the apex of the tongue." Sherlock said, and John noted his voice was much lower than it usually was as he ran his thumb along the tip of John's tongue. "Interesting."

John opened his eyes and was met with the full-force stare of the green eyes he knew so well. Sherlock was analyzing his every move: every flicker of eye movement – every blush that rose to the doctor's cheeks – every twitch of his fingers that were tightly threaded together in his own lap.

Sherlock removed his fingers from John's mouth and at an agonizing slow pace traced them over John's lips then.

John was completely entranced, watching the flutter of movement behind those gorgeous eyes in front of him. He saw Sherlock taking in all the details, even the simple ones. The doctor was beyond the stage of blushing – no, now he was burning up with a light sheen of sweat trailing across his back. He felt lightheaded. A faint shudder made its way through his tense body. What made it worse was that John could feel Sherlock's hot breath on his own face, lips just inches away from his own. Perhaps if he leaned forward just a bit…

And suddenly he was met with a rush of air as Sherlock stood up quickly, taking a couple of long strides backwards. "Well, I think I've gathered an adequate amount of information. Thank you that is all I need, John." The detective looked flustered and quite confused as he shoved his arms into his coat.

John felt dejected, and flushed now with embarrassment instead of arousal. "W-Where…uhm…where are you going?"

Sherlock avoided his gaze while tugging on his gloves quickly. "Scotland Yard. You don't have to come – I have no further need of you. Don't wait up." And with his coat trailing along behind his heels, the consulting detective had left the flat completely.

John sunk down further into his armchair, biting at his bottom lip nervously. Had he made him mad? No, John knew what Sherlock was like when he was mad – and that was definitely not anger. That was…anxiety maybe? Confusion? That fit more with the symptoms, but not with Sherlock's character. Sherlock was never anxious or confused. He always knew precisely what was going on and why.

The worn out Watson ran a hand over his face, letting out a frustrated groan. And what about what he was feeling at the moment? It was like a hurricane had met a tornado, ripping up his insides and splashing them around everywhere while doing so. This experiment definitely proved one thing for him though – he obviously had feelings for his flat mate. How deep those feelings ran though, John had no idea.

Exactly three days passed and John was almost fed up with the silence coming from his best friend. He was used to a couple of hours of complete nothing while Sherlock was on the couch buried deep in his mind palace, but not this. This was just horrible. All the detective said was the basic 'yes' or 'no', and even then he would not make complete eye contact. Whenever John would try and talk to him about the matter, Sherlock would immediately just leave the flat and end up not coming back late that night.

But tonight, no, John was going to stay up as late as possible. Sherlock was being a five-year old about the whole situation. They desperately needed to talk about what had happened because apparently it was more than an experiment to the detective if he was acting this way.

John was sitting in the common room when the downstairs door opened and closed quietly. He could hear Sherlock shuffle as silent as possible up the stairs and then turn the door knob slowly. When opening the door, he obviously did not expect the doctor to still be up at one in the morning waiting – so when Sherlock glanced up, he froze when their eyes met.

"Sherlock." John said as he stood up. "We need to talk."

To John's surprise though, Sherlock just gave a long sigh and threw his coat on the couch. "There is nothing to talk about, John. Nothing has happened, correct? Why haven't you already gone to bed, it's one in the morning-"

"Oh, don't play dumb. We both know it doesn't suit you." John snapped.

Sherlock visibly swallowed and shifted from one foot to another. "I…don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh really now? Don't tell me that little experiment of yours didn't affect you the way it affected me."

"It didn't."

John felt a stab of pain in his gut. "But I thought…"

"You obviously thought wrong, John. As always. It was an experiment, a test, nothing more. I've long forgotten about it. Why I've been silent the last three days? The case, John. The case. Did you think you were so special that I would have been troubled by just you these past days? It seems you have forgotten who I am. Just drop the matter and leave it be." Sherlock muttered, raising his chin a fraction of an inch.

With his eyes now locked onto the floor beneath his feet, John licked his lips and swallowed the rising lump in his throat. His heart constricted at those words, but Sherlock was right. Why should he have expected any more from the high-function sociopath? John cleared his throat loudly. "Erm…right…" His shoulders sagged a bit. "Goodnight, then."

"I don't have friends. I've just got one."

"I was so alone and I owe you so much."

"Goodbye John."

"My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead."

"…I've just got one."

"Sherlock!"

John awoke with a start and gasped, sitting up quickly. He felt his best friend's name almost slip from his lips, but he forced it back with a bite of his tongue. Willing his fast-paced heart to slow down, John leaned forward with his face in his hands. The nightmares were lessening now – only once a week.

"John?"

The man in question sighed. "I'm fine, Sherlock. Go back downstairs." Instead of hearing retreating footsteps though, John glanced up when the footsteps came towards him. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed beside him. "Sherlock…"

"I'm sorry, John. Forgive me."

"For what?" asked John incredulously.

"For lying to you earlier. I didn't mean a word of what I said."

John licked his lips. "But-"

"John, clearly emotions and such are not my area of expertise. But one thing I do know of – is that you are the only person who has ever come this close to me." Sherlock let out a laugh. "And it frightens me a bit." Their eyes met. "But you mean a lot to me, that is for sure. Maybe more than I let on."

John's cheeks flushed and he was glad for the darkness in the room. He looked at Sherlock, then. Really looked at him. The moonlight outlined his face gorgeously, enhancing the sharp cheekbones and contours of his face, his pupils were fully blown, and a small smile played on the lips carved so beautifully.

John Watson was in love.

He reached out and carefully traced Sherlock's jaw line, placing his palm against the other man's cheek. "No doubt you've already deduced my feelings." He whispered as he leaned forward a little, allowing the tips of their noses to softly graze each other.

"Obviously." Sherlock whispered back.

John did not know who leaned forward in that moment, or who pressed their lips to the other's first, or who let out a contented sigh. All he knew was that it was a perfect sensation to have Sherlock Holmes' lips moving against his own. John's hand was in the mess of dark curls while the other stayed upon his cheek, thumb running along the velvety skin. Sherlock didn't quite know what to do at first, but soon his hands were latched behind John's neck, pressing them both into each other even more. All he could taste and feel was Sherlock.

A shudder through John in that second and he felt Sherlock smirk against his lips at the reaction, pulling back a bit. John felt the hotness of breath on his own skin as Sherlock bent his head, pressing his lips to a soft spot upon John's neck, sucking and biting. "Sherlock…" his name came out as more of a groan than anything else, and it made his skin grow even hotter.

Sherlock had somehow managed to lean over John so much that they had fallen back onto the pillows and blankets, though his mouth was still roaming over the other's skin. John squeezed his eyes shut, relishing the feeling of – oh, God was that his tongue? Their mouths started to slide over each other again in an instant, and John wondered how the hell Sherlock could have so much experience in kissing. It was fantastic and alluring. It was perfection in the whole sense of the word. It was-

Sherlock pulled away and sat up suddenly. John groaned in protest, opening his eyes. "What's wrong?"

The detective stared down at him with an amused expression, hair mussed from John's practically pulling and tugging at it, chest bare – when had he lost his shirt in the process? "I think…if we go any farther, neither of us will be able to control ourselves."

"What makes you think that?" John said as his lungs tried to find more air.

Sherlock shifted a bit on top of the doctor's hips where he was sitting and John's eyes fluttered close as he bit back a small moan.

"That is why, my dear Watson." And he captured the other's lips in a sweet-savoring kiss.

One would think that it was a happily-ever-after from this moment on, John thought as he lay curled up in the faint morning light with his flat mate. One would also probably think their problems ended here and that everything would be easy and such after this.

No, John knew this wasn't true. This was just the beginning of a much long-endured emotional process for the both of them. Were they lovers now? John had no idea. Boyfriends? For Heaven's sake, no. The word alone did not suit the two. But best friends? Yes. Definitely yes. They were two halves of a whole and in no dire need of a title as far as the two were concerned. John was just glad that the consulting detective was back for good, he decided while smiling into the bare skin of Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock Holmes was still a high-functioning sociopath that relied on cases and such for his sanity.

And John Watson was still the faithful blogger who tagged along and kept his best friend in line when needed.

And that's all that mattered.

/FIN

Review if convenient, if not convenient review anyways~

(because a ton of you lovely people out there have alerted this - a TON. And I would love to hear your feedback and thoughts, my darlings.)

Thank you all again for reading! ;) Hope you've enjoyed this as much as I loved writing it!

-JM