Last chapter: this one has a lot of dialogue and explanations. This is actually the first multiple-part story I've ever finished. Let's all revel in my small victory (especially because I was distracted by a constant run of Top Gear and the squidgy cheeses in the foil packets while trying to write this chapter).

"Congratulations," Sherlock told Sebastian with a smile, standing at the edge of the stage after the graduation ceremony. Sebastian smiled back, leaning forward to place a gentle kiss on Sherlock's forehead before turning away and catching the arm of his newest girlfriend.

"Sherlock, you've been very fun," the new graduate murmured. He slipped his arm around the tall blonde girl's waist, ignoring the way she looked Sherlock up and down and stood closer to him, obviously viewing Sherlock as a threat. "My friends and I have sung your praises, and I wish you the best of luck in being someone else's pet."

Pale eyes darkened drastically. "Could we… keep in touch?" he asked in a tone dripping with desire, one last ditch attempt to entice Sebastian's favour.

"I think not, Sherlock. I'm off to bigger and better things." Sebastian squeezed the girl a bit, smirking widely at the exaggerated squeal she made. Sherlock gritted his teeth but took a bit of pride in noticing the large red mark on her cheek. Apparently no one was good enough not to be abused by him.

Heaving a sigh and crossing his arms over his chest, Sherlock looked at his feet. "I love you, Sebastian." When there was no reply, he looked up again; Sebastian and his girlfriend were gone.

Now Sherlock was left alone. He was still an outcast, still the bane of the school's existence, but now he didn't haveanyoneto use him. It was different in a better way than he would have thought in the thick of their relationship.

But that loneliness had a bit more freedom. His highs were especially high and his lows were more bearable. His relationship with Mycroft became less antagonistic. A few of his classmates acknowledged him almost daily.

"I want to get clean," he told Mycroft over the phone, sitting in a dark corner of his dormitory. "From both of them."

"I can rent you a flat and put you through rehabilitation," Mycroft agreed. Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice and, for the first time since Mycroft first left for his own university days, smiled back.

John was already downstairs when Sherlock made his way from the bedroom, sitting at the kitchen table with his hands around a steaming mug of coffee. "Evening," he greeted without looking up. "I was coming right back up."

Sherlock sat next to him and had a look round the newly-spotless kitchen. He knew from experience that John cleaned when he was stressed, and for him to wash and put up their best tea set told of particularly taxing thoughts. "I'm not going to tell you it was a mistake," Sherlock said softly.

Sky blue eyes flickered over to him, sweeping over his red dressing gown and mussed hair, before dropping back to the table. "Although it was?"

"It wasn't." Sherlock bit his kiss-pinked bottom lip. "I honestly… enjoyed it. A lot." He wrung his hands in his lap, seeming to debate his next words with himself, until finally opening his mouth and murmuring, "Sebastian never really cared about letting me finish."

The right side of John's mouth quirked up. "He was an idiot, then. I liked seeing you relax."

"Feeling, as it were."

"Were you taking the piss, leaving the lights off?" John asked, shifting a bit closer to Sherlock.

"No, no, I was genuinely uncomfortable." The detective shrugged. "I have scars and tracks and I don't really like to show them."

John lifted a warm hand to lay it on Sherlock's forearm, rubbing his thumb into the pale, cool skin. "That's very human of you," he teased.

"I'm willing to be a little more human if we could do that again." Sherlock pulled John's mug toward himself and took a sip of it.

"So it wasn't a bad experience for you?" John couldn't help overanalyzing. On the battlefield, there was no such thing as distinction when it came to those with medical degrees. Surgeons were also therapists most of the time; John had his share of talking to soldiers and civilians that had been abused, and was used to having people put their trust in his hands.

"That's odd, when you have your own trust issues," Sherlock mused softly.

John rolled his eyes. "Could you stop deducing my thoughts and answer the question?" He slid his cup back and took a mouthful, licking his lips.

Sherlock watched his tongue for a moment before shrugging narrow shoulders again, the thin fabric of his robe slipping down a bit to bare his smooth collarbone, just tinted with pink from John's attentions. "I told you I enjoyed it."

"Did you mean it? It doesn't matter what you said if you didn't mean it."

"John, listen. Have I ever been someone to do things I don't want to do?" Sherlock leaned forward to kiss the corner of John's mouth. "Don't worry. Really."

"Would you…" John began tentatively, letting Sherlock nurse his coffee again.

"Would I?"

"Tell me about it? I mean, you don't have to."

Sherlock rubbed his finger across the bridge of his nose self-consciously. "About Sebastian? I told you most of it this morning."

John could tell that Sherlock felt compelled to answer him, so he backed off, instead taking back his near-empty cup and drinking the rest of it. "I think we should get a takeaway. You haven't eaten today, have you?"

"No. Not Chinese."

"Right." John stood up and laid a gentle hand on the back of Sherlock's neck for a moment, then went off for the landline.

"And no curry!" Sherlock called after him.

It took about a week for the two of them to get past awkwardly forced touches and the avoidance of anything overtly sexual. John wasn't fond of pushing his partners—he believed consent was given in the moment and wasn't a season ticket—and Sherlock was preoccupied with figuring out what went wrong that was preventing John from going to him again.

Both of them were worried they'd botched their tentative-to-begin-with relationship. John had taken to leaving his bedroom door open at night, to somehow entice Sherlock inside, but the younger man avoided even looking up the stairs past the twenty-two mark, and developed a disturbing awareness of personal space.

The consulting detective was taken with "research". John tended not to disturb him when he was engrossed with an article (on his laptop or otherwise), so he had plenty of time in peace and quiet to stave off boredom by reading up on acceptable romantic behavior. It didn't take one experienced with a loving and trusting relationship to know that what Sherlock went through with Sebastian was not normal, and gifts of cocaine and fear weren't the most welcome to someone he genuinely cared about.

Most of the gestures were material. Sherlock didn't think that John was a very material person, so those were delegated to holidays: he had seen that happen in many movies and the actions were better received when they had a specific reason. And, off the record, Sherlock didn't think he'd be any good at them anyway.

Others were more emotional, and as he worked his way through hatefully idiotic and yet grudgingly useful guides, he realized that John was doing most of them already. Giving him ample space was one of them. He had to admit that he was jumping at movement a lot more since opening himself up to John so carnally, and being alone helped him calm himself.

Sherlock looked up from his current article when John came past with a cup of tea, meeting his eyes. John smiled and stroked his hair before picking up his novel and settling back in his armchair. Sherlock licked his lips and closed his laptop to sit back and watch John read.

"Something wrong?" John asked eventually, peering over his book to study Sherlock with a concerned expression.

The articles (which Sherlock was completely and utterly done with; honestly, how did such stupidity ever learn to type?) all agreed that honesty was the best policy, and they hadn't had a proper talk since the day they first shagged. "Why haven't we continued having sex?"

John blinked at him. "I didn't think you wanted to, and I wasn't going to push."

"You can push if you want. I'll accept because I want it too. It wouldn't even be pushing, really."

John seemed distressed by Sherlock's obvious confusion. "That's another reason." He closed his book with a snap and set it on the table beside him. "I'm not like Sebastian. Let me finish," he said quickly, before Sherlock could interrupt, "Even if you want it at one point in time, you might not at another."

The younger man looked petulant, folding his arms over his chest. "So we're never going to have sex again, is what you're saying?"

"Of course not, you nutter." John's smile was warm and understanding. "I just have to trust you to know when you want it for you and when you want it for me."

"And do you?"

"Not when you say things like 'you can push if you want,' no."

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Does it help that I trust you not to push?" He took a little pride in the surprised widening of John's eyes. "I've never skirted around doing anything with you, John, and quite frankly it's annoying. I notice the way you look at my mouth but you never come forward, I notice how you leave your door open but you never invite me up—"

"Those cues are for you, Sherlock," John said, exasperated. "This is impossible to explain. You should just get used to it." He stood to take a few steps toward Sherlock, place a warm palm at the back of his head, and pull him forward into a kiss.

"Get used to it I shall, if it gets me more of this," Sherlock murmured against his lips, his own hands coming up to grip at the front of John's jumper and keep him close.

John licked a gentle line across Sherlock's lower lip, internally relieved when he didn't pull away. "Ta," he replied.

Two weeks and three minor cases later, John was awakened from a lie-in by his phone ringing. He groaned, turned his head toward the offensive sound, and instead met a mop of dark hair. "Sherlock, pass me my phone," he said softly into the detective's ear, pushing a few stray curls off of his forehead. "You awake, love?"

Sherlock shook his head as much he could, as it was pressed against John's right shoulder, and murmured an incoherent reply, the arm draped over John's chest tightening ever-so-slightly. John sighed and patted the bedside table, grabbing the phone and flipping it open. "I'd much like to get back to having a sleep with my gorgeous boyfriend, so make it quick," he said in a mildly-aggravated way.

"Apologies, Doctor Watson," Sebastian's snide voice replied. "I wasn't aware ten o'clock was an acceptable time to still be in bed."

"Piss off, tosser," John whispered hatefully, sliding his splayed fingers into Sherlock's sleep-warm curls in an effort to lull him back to sleep. "We solved your case and we got paid. I'm done with you."

Sebastain chuckled at him. "If you're still fucking that freak, I don't think you are. Come down to my office later today. I have a few things to discuss with you."

John was tempted to refuse, but Sherlock was pressing closely into his side and nuzzling his jaw in a sweetly tired way and John wanted to see the banker just to drop him for abusing someone so obviously perfect. "I'll be there around two."

"Good." With that, Sebastian hung up, and John was left to stare at the ceiling and gently massage Sherlock's scalp with his fingertips.

"Are you really going to see him?" Sherlock asked into the silence.

"I am."

"Should I come?"

John couldn't help but be a bit taken aback by Sherlock's unsure tone at the question—he didn't think he'd ever get used to the publically headstrong and ill-mannered detective being so venerable when they were at home. "You don't have to if you don't want to."

"I… I think I do."

"We can get up and eat something in a few. For now…" He rolled over, pushing Sherlock onto his back, and kissed him into incoherence.

By half one they were back at the international trading offices, John standing a bit more protectively near Sherlock as they made their way up once again. "I have three ideas why he invited me alone," John mused.

"Oh?" Sherlock replied, sweeping through the crowd in his normal commanding manner. "And what are they?"

"One, he wants me to leave you so he can take you back," John began, ticking off on his fingers, "Two, he wants to kill me because I actually know how to treat you, or three, he needs some advice on relationships."

A corner of Sherlock's mouth twisted up into an almost-smile. "I don't think it's the second or third."

"He would be ambitious to try any of them," he murmured, situating his hand into Sherlock's and giving it a squeeze.

"John!" Sebastian greeted, a shit-eating grin on his thin lips. "And… Sherlock."

Sherlock gritted his teeth but kept silent, his head down and some dark curls hanging over his eyes. John stepped in front of him, muttering, "Not here." Sebastian sneered at him, then turned and led them into his office.

"What do you want that was so important, Sebastian?" John spat. "I was just on the phone with you. You could have said it there."

"Well, your partner is here, so I would prefer not to say—"

"Whatever you can say in front of him, you can say in front of me," Sherlock said through his teeth. John was unsurprised to see the banker's self-satisfied expression drop, replaced by one much the same as when John took his cheque. Properly annoyed, but not yet angry.

"You're very defensive of him. He can take it, but I'm not sure you can." Sebastian sat on the edge of his desk and folded his arms across his chest. "Would you like a little morphine to dull that pain, Sherlock?"

The detective drew himself up a bit, but John was quicker to reply. "If you called me here to prod me into leaving Sherlock, it wasn't ever going to work. No matter what names you call him or what stories you share, I know he's a thousand times better a man than you are."

"John, you wound me," Sebastian satirized. "I only called you to give you some advice on disciplining him… ways to get him to shut absolutely up. He can get so infuriating." Sebastian's smirk turned positively malicious. "I find a cock in his arse and a cock in his mouth—"

He was cut off by a sharp right hook to his cheek, sending him crashing to the floor with John standing over him. "Don't," the doctor said quietly.

Sherlock had trouble hiding his sadistically pleased smile, but he continued to keep his distance from Sebastian, even as he was wiping his bloody lip. "I don't think you understand what you're up for," Sebastian hissed at John. "He's the sort that needs a good beating once in a while to keep him in line."

"You're the one that deserves a beating, Seb," Sherlock replied smoothly and dangerously, fisting his hands to cover up their trembling. "Unfortunately, I'm not one to give it to you. I am sorry that you've continued to be abusive and can't keep a girlfriend. But take some solace in the fact that I am happy, and you have done nothing and will never do anything to spoil it."

John intertwined their fingers again. "I think we're done here, Sherlock, don't you?"

The detective nodded sharply, miming a doff of a hat at Sebastian before turning and stalking out of his office, John trailing behind him and keeping silent until they had caught another cab. "You all right?" John asked eventually.

"Hm? Yeah, fine. Fine." Sherlock flipped his mobile over in his hands a few times before shoving it back in his pocket.

"Do you want to talk?"

Sherlock seemed to consider his offer for a moment. "When we get home," he conceded.

John paid the cabbie and drew Sherlock into the flat behind him, immediately pressing him against the wall and placing his hands gently on either side of Sherlock's thin face. They stared at each other—John, searching Sherlock's expression for disquiet and Sherlock trying to convince him with his eyes that nothing was wrong—and after a while John pulled back. "Mycroft mentioned something about espionage, but I didn't get all the details," he said.

"Not interested," Sherlock replied tetchily, leaning forward to rest his forehead on John's shoulder. "I'm going back to bed until a truly interesting case. You are welcome to join me." He didn't move though, taking slow breaths until John took a step back and kissed his cheek.

"I am very proud of you, Sherlock. You stood up to someone from your past and didn't let them get to you. A complete berk from your past."

"He is a right berk, isn't he?"

John chuckled, moving behind Sherlock to put his hands on his shoulder blades and push him up the stairs. "Absolutely."

I wanted to do a bit of an epilogue but I couldn't figure out how to write it :( Still, thank you for staying with this for so long :D

ps: if ff really goes through with it's explicit purge, im on ao3 as rivalshipping. come find me if they take me down!