AN: Wow I suck at timely updates. BUT NO MORE! Here is the final chapter of 'Sherlock's Choice'. I'm really glad that you've enjoyed it, if you have. If you haven't, sorry!

Anyway, thanks for ALL the favourites, updates, and reviews from all of your lovely people. My final list of people I'd like to thank for reviewing is as follows: Loopylucymac, Thisby Solo (I hope this update got you uncontrollably excited when it landed in your inbox), and GKingOfFez (Ah! Spare my blushes, you flatterer, you!).

So, that's it. Onwards and to the finish! - B.

Pain. Sharp, intense, and localised. What have I done? I've – oh.

I've hit my head on the top bunk.

"Doctor," Sherlock growled, his hand flying to his head after he sat up too sharply; he sucked in air through his teeth, and screwed his eyes shut.
"Wahey! He's back," The Doctor's happy, friendly voice was a resoundingly positive sign. Sherlock opened his eyes to see the man himself smiling in jubilation. "How're you feeling, Sherly?"
"Bunk-beds," Sherlock huffed as his only reply, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, in what was generally used as his room, whenever he needed to sleep (which wasn't really that frequent, but more so than the Doctor).
"Why is it they always complain about the bunk-beds!"
"Because they're moronic,"
"Bunk-beds are cool," The Doctor declared.
"For eight year-olds," Snapped the sleuth.
"Everyone's an eight-year old inside, at least a little bit. I know for sure you are, Sherlock,"
"So . . . What happened?" Sherlock asked after a pause. His mind was a bit fuzzy.

"Oh, you know. A bit of a run in with the Silurians. Their venom's really quite potent, as it turns out. Oh, sorry about the hand, should be better in a few days," He added, and Sherlock looked down at his left hand, where an ugly green-black bruise blossomed around a jagged cut that looked to be several days old. "Luckily I had the antidote from a good friend of mine. Had to go to the 1800s for you, on my own, while you were back here asleep, talk about lazy," The Doctor ranted, trying to keep his tone light, but Sherlock detected a hint of how truly upset and worried he'd been at managing to get Sherlock injured.
"I don't really remember anything from the past few days, to be honest, Doctor,"
"Yes, well, we are not going back underground. Oh, and for future reference, Silurians do not take kindly to being harshly analysed by Homo sapiens. Their emperess especially doesn't like being told that her husband is cheating on her in front of all her courtiers," The Doctor's tone was suddenly serious.

Sherlock nodded solemnly for a moment, but he couldn't help it: he began to smirk. Then, the smirk turned to a low chuckle, and then a full-blown laugh. The Doctor, against his better judgement, joined in and for a moment they laughed like it was the first time they'd been amused in many years.

Sherlock hadn't been truly carefree, totally blissfully happy even for a single moment ever seen he had left-

. . . Ever since . . .

He abruptly stopped laughing, and gasped, suddenly grabbing the Doctor's lapels in urgency, his eyes wide with a realisation; the Doctor's wide in sudden surprise.

Sherlock had remembered the entire contents of his reality-bending, haunting and terrifying dream in that second.

"John," He breathed to the Timelord. ". . . Doctor, take me back to 221b!"

"But why? I mean, I'm thrilled, but . . . Why? You said yourself, you need to keep away from him, and everyone else you love, or they'll get hurt!"
"The . . . Dream, made me have a change of heart," Sherlock explained, though he was loathe to call it a dream.

The TARDIS shuddered as the Doctor put in the coordinates. He looked up, curious, at the sleuth, his eyes urging him to go on, and his words telling him he wanted the whole story: "What exactly did you see, Sherlock? . . . What happened, in there?" He tapped his own temple slowly, cautiously, wary of what Sherlock might say.

The consulting detective tried to remember how the dream had started, but he couldn't for the life of his completely recall. The first instance had included him realising that something was different . . . Other-worldly, despite where he'd woken up, which was-
"I can't really remember how it started, but I was in 221b with John – that's when I realised something was wrong. Then, there was the noise of sirens, and I fell asleep, and I was back in the TARDIS, only I wasn't awake and you weren't quite . . . You.
"A man, who looked like Moriarty, introduced himself as the, um – the 'Dreamlord'. He said I had to play a game, or I'd die – I needed to pick either the TARDIS, or 221b. Only, in both worlds, something catastrophic was about to happen, so I had to be quick. In the TARDIS world, we were on an unstoppable collision course with a planet; in the 221b-centric world, I was a terrorist – a bomber, being chased by the police.
"Every time I fell asleep in one world, I woke up in the other. I tried extremely hard to deduce which world was the real one, and which was false. I concluded that the TARDIS world was real, so I had to kill myself in the world with 221b to wake up. Strangely enough, I jumped from the top of St. Barts again – but this time, John wasn't there. I was convinced he wasn't even real, until I was almost at the ground, and I saw him. He looked . . . Upset. Lost, and alone. That's when I realised, I . . ."

He faltered, unsure of what to say.

"That's when you realised that he needed you," The Doctor finished, with the softest, kindest and most proud smile Sherlock had ever seen him smile. He had lost so much, so many; his whole planet irrevocably lost. But there was one thing that kept him going, through his struggles and self-hatred: humans. The human race had a knack for surprising both themselves and him; it was like they never realised they were human until they did something either incredibly violent and cruel, or incredibly selfless and noble. This was a case of the latter.

"Well, I . . . Yes," Sherlock agreed falteringly, "However, it was more like . . . I couldn't leave him alone any longer,"
"And so we shan't!" The Doctor cried, his voice raising from its previous murmur, and gaining a triumphant tone. Sherlock was glad to have the uncomfortable emotional confessional out of the way, and smirked familiarly at the Doctor as the Timelord got carried away, leaping into action. In seconds, the TARDIS was shaking and shivering, and throwing the two of them about. They clung onto various railings and the console, the Doctor openly laughing like a madman. Sherlock was glad to have his Doctor back, rather than the one his mind had conjured: the twisted version of the Timelord.

He was also glad to be rid of the Dreamlord; for he knew now that the Dreamlord wasn't a villain, or even really necessarily evil: he was the Dreamlord. It was his mind, telling him that he needed to go back to John; forcing him to see the light.

Sherlock and Moriarty: ironically, in the warped world created by his mind under the influence of the Silurian venom, they were one and the same. Though Moriarty had separated him from John in real life, now he was orchestral in bringing them back together again.

The TARDIS stilled, her orange lights dimming slightly.
"Are you ready?" The Doctor asked, smiling, but still a little concerned. He was about to deal a massive blow to his best friend, after all.
"It's not me you need to worry about, Doctor,"
"I'm always worried about you, Sherlock. You're my companion, after all,"
"Please, you're starting to sound like Mycroft,"
The Doctor laughed, and folded his arms, gesturing with a flick of his head towards the door, "Go on, then,"

Without another word, Sherlock turned towards the door, and strode purposefully towards it, feeling like he couldn't possibly get to it quickly enough. He'd waited long enough; his friend needed him now. He pushed the door open with a squeak of its hinges.

He was immediately confronted by the sight of a sparsely decorated 221b. The new, minimalist setup had a clean feel to it, with neutral furnishings that he didn't find to be particularly nice; they were less expensive than the antiques he'd moved into the flat without John's say-so for decoration, and less personal, and interesting.

However, something was . . . Off. Though it appeared clean, and light, with the watery sunlight filtering through the thick glass windows casting a yellowish-grey light on the whole room, it was actually layered in dust.

He can't even face being in this room. Not even when all of my things have been disposed of. I still haunt it.

He ventured out of the TARDIS fully; leaving the corner it had parked itself in, he ran his index finger through the dust on the mantelpiece. Mrs. Hudson usually did the dusting, but he supposed, if John couldn't face being in the living room, she couldn't, either. He'd been like a son to her.

But obviously, to get to the kitchen, John needed to come through here: it was obvious that he did still use the kitchen, as there was a well-trodden path closest to the wall that he used to get to it; it was like he wanted to stay as close as possible to the wall, to avoid venturing into the living room. Sherlock winced at the implication.

Taking a few steps towards the window, he wondered idly if anyone was home. He couldn't hear Mrs. Hudson's radio or television, and he couldn't hear the slow typing of John punching in one letter after the other into his laptop's keyboard upstairs.

That was when he saw it: a Mercedes that he didn't recognise; a model that wasn't out yet, and that he'd never seen in his life . . . A cool wave of realisation made him want to break out in a panicked sweat and run back to the TARDIS immediately. He'd just noticed the license plate: '15 registration.

He was three years late. But, if he got back to the TARDIS - if he told the Doctor to go back a few years, he might be able to just-

A key turned in the lock.

Too late.

John bustled in, taking the path closest to the far wall to avoid venturing into the living room, and to get most directly to the kitchen. Sherlock didn't know what to say; he wanted to act casually.
"Alright?" It sounded more nervous and hesitant than he'd been going for.
Damn.

John immediately spun around; eyes widening in alarm, he set what appeared to be bags full of shopping down on the table - he still reached for the gun that wasn't there in his waistband, after three years, Sherlock noted with a feeling something like pride.

He just stared for a moment, his face entirely blank, unable to react properly for at least a minute. It wasn't that Sherlock's miraculous appearance hadn't registered; it was that he couldn't even jumpstart his body to react. He was having trouble breathing.

"No," He eventually whispered, and though his blank face didn't change at all, his voice was hoarse and quiet.
"Didn't think you would be," Sherlock commented glibly, picking up one of the very few items in the room - a TV guide from several months ago - and examined it, brushing the dust from it onto the floor in a way that could have been construed as being awkward.

Obviously, John hadn't been answering his question. This became even more apparent when he saw John keel over and faint. He leapt across the room his grab his friend, making sure he didn't hit his head on the table.
"Doctor!" He yelled, though he wasn't sure if he was directing it at his nearest friend, or his Timelord one. The Timelord poked his head out of the TARDIS – which, as per usual, John had failed to notice, being human and so delightfully average and all – and saw Sherlock's situation.
"Ah," He said, a little put out, "I had a feeling this might happen. Let's take care of him inside, shall we?" He gestured inside the TARDIS.
"Are you sure that's a good idea? He's already quite overwhelmed," Sherlock reasoned with an uncharacteristic note of care in his deep voice.
"Then how much extra damage could a space-and-time-ship do? It'd help your explanation of how you survived – two birds with one stone, no?"

Sherlock sighed. "Grab his legs," He acquiesced.
"Right-o,"

The two tall men dragged the smaller man into the TARDIS, its glowing lights making warm, comforting colours behind his eyelids. He stirred, eventually, and opened his eyes to see an unearthly ceiling, his impossible friend, and a man who was for some reason wearing tweed and a bow tie. He frowned, perplexed but not feeling threatened, because he could see Sherlock Holmes' stupid bloody smirk and that made him feel okay. A smile from a friend – even a supposedly dead friend – did wonders for a neglected and desolate soul, it would seem.

So, for the first time in what seemed like years, and was, Doctor Watson smiled back, accepting Sherlock's hand to pull him to a standing position. He looked all around for a minute, speechless, and then at Sherlock's face for a few minutes more.

The Doctor waited for his personal favourite first-time-passenger line, 'It's bigger on the inside'. What he got was:
". . . I – I missed you,"
But he wasn't disappointed at all.

Aww. The End! If you liked it, recommend it to your friends! And it would be great if you left a review :)