Epilogue

Next morning, as John sat on his chair with a cuppa, reading a paper, a box of nicotine patches and packs of cigarettes fell into his lap.

He raised eyebrows to Sherlock, the man trusted his hands into the dressing gown, fidgeted, kept his eyes momentarily to the floor, then finally raised up his head.

John could see those pale lips thinned in determination.

"I'm quitting."

John tiled his head, sniggered, then reaching out a hand, "your secret supply, too."

Sherlock huffed exasperatedly, disappeared into the fireplace, a second later a pack was hurled into John's lap, joined the others.

John's shoulder slumped in relief.

What ever it was.

The hell's gone.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

Except it isn't. Really isn't. Trust Sherlock to be a tremendous pain in the arse while quitting. Of course. A pair of days the man barely slept, despite the fact that it was his post-case-hibernation phase; Then there were days he passed out, day and night, barely found enough strength to go to the loo. John moved Sherlock upstairs in his bed, because he had to wake up several times during night to clean Sherlock up, since the man was shivering, scratching deeply at his chest as if wanting to rip open his own ribs.

After he could stand up again, Sherlock indulged his new found energy into tearing apart their flat, constantly, like a petulant child throwing everything everywhere. John gave up to tidy the place eventually, seeing no point in it.

Only the violin and the skull were safe, as always. Victor was John's loyal ally now, together with Mrs. Hudson help to hide Sherlock's once- secret-supply.

(John hadn't flushed it, merely moved it out of sight. No one could quit for someone else, after all. Sherlock hat to learn to control his own need.)

But some nights, as he shut up the telly prepared to go to bed, Sherlock disappeared into his own bedroom, (The man moved back again, after his strength came back.) came out one second later with his duvet in arms, still didn't know how to ask, just stood there, gesturing with flickering gaze that he want to follow, too.

John tiled the head bewildered, "Why the duvet?"

"Yours is too short." Sherlock's eyes darted away.

John shook his head, laid one hand on the small of Sherlock's back, shepherded him to keep on going upstairs.

— He gave up defining their relationship long ago. Sherlock didn't seem to be bothered either. Even though their limbs entwined up during sleeping.

John always slept better with Sherlock on the bed, though.

Amused and annoyed as he was, John was moved by seeing how much Sherlock wanted this.

Whatever it was, they were together in it now.

And John would never let this go, even if he regretted frequently.

Even after the madman charged into the door, covering with pig's blood, shirt trousers completely ruined; even after Sherlock had to carry his killing weapon everywhere, throwing insults at everything everyone just so he could; even after the oversized baby begged him to give him a case — By what, wave a wand? What is John, seriously, Merlin?

Deeply touched by the confidence the idiotic genius put into him, John still sighed and silently begged: Please. Please God let an interesting client come. No this fairy rabbit one doesn't count.

It was hellish. Hot, grand, breathtaking, demanding every space to explode in like a supernova, much brighter much better than Afghanistan's burning sun.

He was never bored. Never lonely. Not anymore.

Not after they were in this together.

END