Sup! Just to say- final chapter. and thank you very much indeed for reading!

Fluffy chapter. Well, I hate calling it that, because it sound wussy for a story about prostitutes, but for those of you who look close enough (I like to think my audience isn't stupid), the questions that needed answering have been answered.

John had never been one for literature. He was, and always had been, a scientific man: he liked the facts, and using the facts to stay in control. So when Molly sat next to his bed after his operation, his head swimming with not-yet-worn-off anaesthetic and morphine, and talked about endings, it really meant nothing to him. He instead propped himself up slightly, and watched her lips move as the words washed over him, calming the panic.

"Real-life isn't like a story, Molly," came a calm baritone. "You see the ending from a different perspective in a story. Not to mention, that things are seldom tied into a neat little bow. There are ongoing problems and suchlike. Not everything is solved at the end of a chapter in real-life." And Sherlock revealed himself in a way only he could- drawing open the curtains with a flourish, eyes twinkling with pleasure as he saw John awake.

"Who said this was a "chapter"?" John asked.

"Molly."

"Did I?"

"I don't know, I wasn't listening."

There was a short silence. Molly fiddled with the sleeve of her coat- or John's coat, which it seemed she had been lent. Not that John minded. It suited her.

"When you leave home, or finish school- that's like the end of a chapter. And it doesn't matter if everything is left hanging, in a random place, y'know... It's still the end," Molly contemplated.

"If you define life by starts and ends, then people forget what comes in the middle."

"A little ray of bloody sunshine, aren't you," John scowled up at Sherlock from the hospital bed. He hated hospitals- or rather, he hated being the patient. The beds were awful, and he knew the mistakes when he saw them, and it frustrated him how he couldn't do anything about it, or anything about the fact he was there in the first place. If he moved, it hurt. John wondered if the bullet had torn any if the already existing scar-tissue- which woukd take longer to heal.

He was lucky to be alive. Strange, though: while Sherlock aimed for the head, the man who was supposedly his equal- a man with no furthur desires other than to mess with him- went for the heart.

"Fine. I suppose social protocol desires me to ask; how do you feel?"

Despite the way he'd posed the question, both Molly and John could see how he leant forward as he said it, and how the hard cynicism in his voice wavered a bit in the middle. Molly couldn't help but surreptitiously smile, tugging at the bottom of the t-shirt the hospital had, for some reason, given her (as well as trousers).

"Groggy, and I want out of here."

"Now who's optimistic?" Sherlock said, but he was smiling wryly up at John, a sad twinkle in his eye. The bed felt suddenly hard against John's back, and the bedclothes all too thin, as if being with Sherlock made everything close in a little. He had to mentally make sure his breathing was regular for a few seconds, lest he just stop.

"Molly, could you give us a minute, please?" John asked politely. "If my wallet's down there, Sherlock needs some coffee before he falls asleep."

"I'm not dependent," Sherlock mumbled, and John flinched slightly at the touchiness of the subject of addictions, but Molly sinply moved behind the blue curtain with a passive wave, and Sherlock didn't notice. So he decided to continue.

"Mycroft came by before."

"How, indeed, did he get here before Molly and I?" Sherlock asked, and it was largly rhetorical. Mycroft was a drug dealer, tossing about cannabis and cocaine, sure, but his knowledge of drugs wasn't restricted to that of the illegal kind, just as Sherlock's intimate understanding of people wasn't limited to those who payed him. So he knew around how long a patient like John would be out for, after an operation.

"Divulging more of my deepest secrets, I presume?" Sherlock steepled his fingers underneath his chin. John ran a hand up his face in reflection, remarking on how grubby he felt, and how nice it would be to get back to the flat; with it's moody lighting, relative isolation and old, dusty smell. Finish unpacking his boxes, and have a shower- and perhaps some tea. The stuff they served in hospitals was watery, like an overworked-nurse didn't have time to boil the kettle properly, nor leave the bag to stew.

"He said he'd pay off the three million," John bent his chin to his chest. "You-"

"He's offered that before, John," Sherlock interjected calmly, "Many times. And I won't have it- not because I'm stubbourn, or because I have some deep love and respect for my darling big brother and couldn't possibly accept his money... Just won't."

"He got you into-"

"No, he didn't get me into anything. I... was young and foolish at the time- well, I'm still foolish now, look what I dragged you into- a game, again. A stronger man could have resisted temptation. So I can take on the ever-preached consequences of my actions, I assure you- and I certainly won't let Mycroft feel he's done something altruistic, or worse, that I owe him a favour."

"So you are stubbourn."

"No."

"...He did save us there, doing the whole-"

"I had it under control."

John chuckled. "Did you?" And then he stopped, seeing Sherlock leaning back, like a cat, and stretching his legs across the sterile linoleum. "I'm sorry, too. For accusing you of that stuff, getting drunk, letting Rich- Jim, use me so easily, and then running off into trouble. And that you got strapped up with bombs."

"Isn't it quite heroic, for a soldier to run into battle like that?"

"Not to bring an innocent woman into the fray, and get knocked-out, no," John sighed. His heart was pounding now- reliving the moments where the shots echoed in his ears, and supressing the guilt that rose in his chest everytime. "Just... For once, Sherlock, accept the apology?"

"If you accept mine."

"...I do."

And the whole ward seemed to sigh, the walls lightening, even in the dim light of the overcast December afternoon, and the papery curtains fluttering gently with a breeze from a door out in the corridor. There was a window directly opposite John, by the side of another patient's bedside (they were asleep), where John could see clearly the side of a building (he wasn't sure which one) and then, besides that, an expanse of grey sky. However, the picture wasn't a still one- as, after a minute, he realised he was watching a kind of weightless rain falling in arbitrary directions.

"Hey... Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" No matter what he said, about gun-fights and fraternal-hatred being sufficiently stimulating, he needed some coffee.

"It's... It's snowing."

"...Bit early, isn't it?"

"'Tis December now," John shrugged. "You left your scarf at home."

"I thought you'd notice."

"What?" John sat up suddenly, and winced as a stabbing pain shot through his shoulder.

"I do know when I'm about to get kidnapped, even under the cover of night. I left it so you knew I wasn't just sulking."

John could manage nothing but a small "Oh."

Sherlock didn't think he was stupid, then.

Sherlock caught his eye, and John wanted to kick himself. No, he told himself. Sure, Sherlock could be an arse, but if there was one thing the past day had taught him, it was that the arses of the world told the truth, and that the nice people were nothing but an illusion- a web of lies. A lesson he ought to take away, he thought, once Mycroft had cleared everything up (everything left, anyway- it was concluded to be easier leaving the police deluded or paid off about the murders, whichever it was).

Obscure as it may seem, in the story of John Watson's life, this enigmatic prostitute had become the good guy. So had Lestrade, Molly, Sally- and bloody hell, even Mycroft.

And "Sly Stammy" wasn't the last one laughing.

God knows, things had become weird. And yet... he was content. (Or he would be, when his shoulder healed up).

The snow was getting heavier. It was flurrying and collecting on the window ledge, already mounting a white pile about a centimeter thick against the pane.

"Well," John exhaled loudly, "Smart as it was, you're going to get nasty cold when we finally get out of here."

Sherlock's lips curved into a perfect bow-shape; a serene smile, and, slowly- and yet so quickly that John didn't realise it was hapeening- he leant down, and pressed a perfect, chaste kiss to John's forehead.

"We'll manage."