A/N: Here is the conclusion. I hope ACD is not rolling in his grave as I finish writing this. I originally was going to make the ending a bit more emotional, but it seemed too out-of-character for Sherlock. All the dialogue in this part was very stressful for me to write as it is the bane of my existence, but I think it came out fairly well. Enjoy!

John crouched down to check Culverton-Smith's vitals. "I can't say he's not going to feel that when he wakes up, but at least he's still breathing. Not that he deserves to be, the sick bastard," John muttered standing up again. Silence filled the room as Sherlock continued to stare at John as if not quite believing his eyes. John quirked his eyebrows at his friend.

"Do you want to call in Lestrade now?"

Sherlock snapped out of his reverie. "Yes, right. Lestrade." He sent out a quick text, Culverton-Smith out of commission. Please come collect. –SH, then picked up the transmitter from where it had fallen out of the criminal's hand.

"Do you think he was bluffing?" John asked, nodding at the device.

"No," Sherlock mused. "I think a man as clever as Culverton-Smith would have insurance. Lestrade and the team can trace back the signal and take care of it." Lestrade and Donovan strode into the room. Lestrade was beaming, while Sally's face wore a scowl.

"Well done. Can't believe he fell for it. I must say, Sherlock, your acting was superb. Got him to make a full confession without him realizing the trap he'd walked into," Lestrade rambled gleefully. John handed the Detective Inspector a small recording device he'd had hidden under the bed sheets. There was a moment of silence as Lestrade looked at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock turned from gazing out the window when he felt everyone's eyes upon him.

"Are we done here, Lestrade? I'm sure John's hungry, and I could use a bite to eat myself," the detective asked.

"I suppose so," Lestrade said, bewildered when Sherlock didn't launch into an elaborate victory speech. "I know where to find you if I need you."

"Excellent," Sherlock replied, already striding out of the room. "Coming, John?"

"Right behind you," John responded, nodding to Lestrade and Donovan, sharing a puzzled look with them that clearly said, I don't know what's wrong with him either.

When they had both left, Donovan turned to Lestrade. "The freak is getting freakier by the day." Lestrade shot her a disapproving look.

"Maybe. But you can't argue with his results," he replied. "Call in the boys and let's get this madman out of here."

John and Sherlock walked in silence on their way to one of their favorite Italian restaurants. John was no stranger to Sherlock's sulking, but his flat mate usually lasted 24 hours before the boredom started settling in and he became nearly impossible to live with. Something here was very wrong.

"So," John started. "Awfully considerate of you to worry about my dietary needs." Sherlock looked over at him.

"I just though you might be hungry. You complained enough about the bread and water diet I put you on for the last few days. I thought I owed you something a bit more substantial," he replied with a shrug.

"You do. Between catching the flu from work and your plan to have me fake a wasting illness, I think I've dropped ten pounds. I must look emaciated," John replied, trying to lighten the mood a bit. Sherlock shot him another look, but the crease on his brow didn't lessen.

"I think you're being a bit dramatic, John. The make-up did most of the work, and you've only lost four and a quarter pounds since last week," Sherlock stated. John didn't even bother asking how Sherlock had come up with that number.

"Molly did one hell of a job making me look like a dead man. Who would have guessed she used to do stage makeup for her sister's acting troupe," John said. Silence fell once more. John kept glancing at Sherlock, while the detective purposefully kept his eyes on the night sky.

"Lestrade's right you know," John began again. "You would have made a great actor." Sherlock grinned slightly at the comment.

"Mycroft always said the silver screen lost a star the day I decided to dedicate my mental faculties to deduction," Sherlock replied. The grin quickly faded from his face.

"Seriously, though, Sherlock. Even I forgot I wasn't actually dying. You were crying. How did you manage it? Sherlock?" John spun around when he failed to hear Sherlock's footsteps behind him. The consulting detective stood a few meters behind John, his eyes focused on the ground. John walked back to him, concern etched on his features.

"All right, what's wrong? Everything went according to plan. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, even Harry played their part to a tee. We caught Culverton-Smith. We should be celebrating," John said, placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock slowly looked up at him.

"Not everything," he replied hoarsely.

"Sorry, what?" John asked, thoroughly baffled now.

"Not everything went according to plan," Sherlock said, his voice gaining in strength and volume.

"As per usual, it seems I'm missing something," John said, beginning to get frustrated. He had been living on a medieval prisoner's diet for the last few days, spent half of the past week getting over the flu, and employed the rest of the week pretending to be dying so they could get their suspect to come out of hiding. John hadn't been outside the hospital in three days and the cabin fever had set in after the first night. To be fair, Sherlock hadn't left the hospital either (they had to make their charade believable), but he at least had the lab and the case to occupy his time. Sherlock never got bored whilst tangoing with a criminal. Now all John wanted was some real food, a hot cup of tea, and his friend to be back to his normal, sociopathic self.

Sherlock took a deep breath as if he were about to explain some elaborate detail John had missed, but he seemed to think better of it and simply said, "I should have foreseen his stunt with the rats." John sighed in relief. As per usual, Sherlock was obsessing over a detail he had missed.

"Is that really what's bothering you? Come on now, Sherlock. Even you can't expect yourself to plan for every contingency," John said exasperatedly.

"Of course I can," Sherlock replied adamantly. "What if you had really been sick? You would have died because I had falsely deduced he would have some sort of cure."

"Well, I wasn't dying, Sherlock; we caught the lunatic. He can't hurt anyone anymore," John replied reassuringly.

"I suppose you're right," Sherlock mused. Feeling slightly better, he started walking once more, John falling into step next to him. They strolled in companionable silence, Sherlock's mood improving with every stride.

"You wanted to know how I managed to act so convincingly?" Sherlock asked a few moments later. John nodded. Sherlock looked over at his friend.

"In those few hours when we were waiting for Culverton-Smith to arrive, I recreated the case in my head and how it would have played out if you had actually been exposed to Smith's disease. Since the flu had put you out of commission for most of the case, it really didn't take all that much effort. When our murderer showed up, I had created an alternate reality where you were actually on death's door," Sherlock explained. "The best actors know that in order to make others buy into their performance, they have to believe in it themselves."

"You would be that broken up if I were to kick the bucket?" John asked in a tone of slight amazement.

"I might have embellished it a little to make it more convincing," Sherlock replied noncommittally. That was a lie, though. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to admit the truth to John. The doctor would not believe him if he told him he hadn't been acting and had forgot his only friend wasn't actually dying, just pretending. Sherlock's tears had been genuine and (for once) his heart had won out over his head. No, John didn't need to know all that. It would only lead to one of those discussions about feelings and emotions that Sherlock so despised. But he did have to tell him something. John needed to know he did care what happened to the doctor, that John's life did matter. In the end (despite his better judgment), Sherlock decided to go for the obvious.

"I'm glad you're not dying, John."

"Me, too," John replied. "I can't imagine the state of the flat if I died. Mrs. Hudson would have a heart attack with you as her only tenant." Sherlock's face broke into a small, but sincere grin this time.

"And then I would have to find a new flat mate," Sherlock replied, continuing the joke. "An odious process I do not wish to repeat."

"I can see the advertisement now. 'Consulting detective seeks flat mate. Only ex-Army doctors with a tolerance for violin playing at all hours and a love of life-threatening situations need apply,'" John replied jokingly.

"I think I might try someone from the RAF next time. Ex-Army doctors are far too tidy and meddlesome. Their constant nagging about one's health can really tax the nerves," Sherlock said with mock sincerity. John and Sherlock shared a look and then burst out into laughter. Their mirth died down as they reached the restaurant. Sherlock turned to face John as he opened the door.

"What romanticized name will you be giving this case in your next blog entry?" Sherlock asked sarcastically. John thought for a moment, ignoring Sherlock's tone.

"The Dying Doctor. Alliteration's always nice. And for once, I get to be the hero because despite your massive intellect, you wouldn't have been able to nab him without me," John replied smugly. Sherlock smiled.

"No, I wouldn't have," Sherlock said simply as he headed into the establishment. "But don't get too comfortable in the limelight." John shook his head fondly and followed his friend inside.

"The Dying Doctor" received more hits than any previous post, which John boasted about for several days. Sherlock assured him that a case even better than this one would pop up soon enough, but he let John enjoy his fame while it lasted.

Sherlock had finally gotten around to reading John's latest account of their adventures. Although the prose was a bit on the dramatic side, John did have a storyteller's gift. And he never had a single grammar error or typo, something that never failed to impress Sherlock.

On a whim, Sherlock scrolled down to the comments section. Most of them were banal versions of the same sentiment, with more "bloody fantastics" and "well dones" than Sherlock cared to count. Yet, further down the page, one response caught his eye.

Sherlock Holmes is lucky to have you as a friend, Dr. Watson. You two are a team in the truest sense of the word. He would be very lost without you. The comment—left by an anonymous reader—startled Sherlock with its accuracy.

Sherlock placed the cursor in the reply box. Yes he would be. And I'm sure he hopes Dr. Watson is aware of that fact. Sherlock pressed submit with a satisfied smile on his face. John would know Sherlock had written the comment, and he would understand the deeper meaning lurking behind the simple phrases without confronting Sherlock about it.

Sherlock closed John's laptop and flung himself on the couch, wrapping his dressing gown around him. He closed his eyes and quickly fell asleep. He didn't know what tomorrow would bring, but he was certain of one thing: John would have his back. And in the end, that was all the consulting detective really needed.

I had to include the comment on Sherlock's acting skills because something along those lines pops up in a majority of ACD's stories. Also couldn't resist Sherlock's jibe at John's writing, another common feature in the Holmes tales.

A million thank yous to everyone who has reviewed, followed, favorited, or even just read the story. You have all made me feel very welcome here, and I look forward to sharing more of my work with this supportive community.