A/N: Well here is the last chapter. Thank you to all of you who have been following along! You have been very kind.

As usual I do not own, but maybe with the right technology! Mwahahahaha!

10. To Live My Life As It's Meant To Be

He awoke briefly, an escape from the darkness and fear. He shouted and begged and asked them to give him back his name. He couldn't remember who he was and he was alone and scared. He couldn't move and there was a discordant noise in his head threatening to overwhelm him. Just as he was about to become shattered and lost amidst the swirling sands of his mind, long, caring fingers carded through his hair and a voice he quite liked told him to Hush and Sleep John, I'm here. And the howling stopped, the wind died down and he remembered he was John. He went back under, away from the confusion and away from the din, but he pulled the voice down with him and he hung on to it, clung to it, to stay above the dread and uncertainty, which circled below.

When he woke the next time it was to the constant beep of hospital monitors. The sound was irritating and it prevented him from slipping back under. He shifted slightly. He could move again and he was comfortable. He was also thoroughly confused. Afghanistan crept in at first, but that could not be right. He'd died there. How could he be here if he was no longer alive? If this was somebody's idea of an afterlife it pretty much was a let down.

He heard someone move beside him and he sighed, a sound full of relief and hope.

He croaked out a name. "Sherlock?"

"I'm here. Rest, John."

He sighed again. "How long?"

"14 hours, 23 minutes and 9 seconds, not counting the brief episode when you were having nightmares."

There was a pause and John felt that same hand touch his hair again. "I was becoming concerned. It was more than a bit not good. Please don't do that again."

John struggled to raise his eyelids. When they finally cooperated it was to show him Sherlock leaning over the edge of his bed staring at his face. He was biting his lower lip.

John smiled or at least attempted to. It felt more like the rictus grin of a skull.

"You're certain I'm John? Aren't you afraid I might still be Moran?" He had to get it out of the way, beat down the anxiety.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and scowled at the man in the bed.

"Don't be ridiculous. Who else would you be? You are you. The 'you' you are supposed to be. Now go back to sleep. We will discuss this when you are awake and coherent." Lips replaced the hand and lingered on his forehead. "I am here. I will always be here."

John sighed again and drifted away to a place where, for now, there were no more nightmares.

oOo

Sherlock was watching the news 'vids when John came out of their bedroom, yawning and stretching. He immediately walked over to where the other man sat, like a magnet pointing north and planted a kiss on top of his head.

"Morning."

Sherlock smiled briefly but didn't say anything just turned back to the news.

It had been almost a month since the incident John liked to call 'The Pool'. Events from that time were still hazy and he was still uncertain as to where it was all going, but most days he was grateful to be alive and intended to live as best he could. He felt almost like he was on borrowed time, having already died twice, once as John and once as Moran.

He stood in the kitchen contemplating breakfast. Sherlock was between cases, which meant it was likely he would eat so he made tea and toast for two. He carried the simple breakfast in and placed half beside the detective. He sat across the table from him and slowly chewed and sipped his way through the meal whilst staring out of the window.

He was jerked out of his musings by Sherlock's voice. He'd obviously called him a few times. John muttered a 'sorry, daydreaming' and then turned back to stare out the window.

"John? You are not listening."

He blushed. "Sorry, Sherlock. I seem to be having trouble focusing today."

"Headache?"

"No"

"Nose bleed?"

"Obviously not. No, I'm fine. I'm just lost in thought."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're worried again, aren't you? Another great moral debate on the fate of John Watson," he said it a smidgen of sarcasm. John knew it was a defense mechanism to cover up the worry Sherlock really felt, but would forever deny.

"Well how would you feel if you woke up in a different body, but didn't know it and then find out that not only was it the body of the man who shot and killed you but he'd been sleeping with the madman behind the whole thing. Might give you cause to have a few wonderings about morality." His tone was full of dark humour but without the bitterness that had been present when he first awoke in the hospital. He was actually pleased at how well he was coping, considering. There really was no precedence for this as far as he knew and it wasn't something you could go to a therapist to talk it through. He and Sherlock had been stuck trying to feel their way around it as best they could. Sherlock's idea most of the time was to take him to bed and distract him with the use of his hands and mouth. Sherlock was as clever in bed as he was in other ways. It was generally a very pleasant way to take his mind off of things, but it didn't answer some of the niggling questions, ones that Sherlock had been avoiding.

Sherlock turned off the news and stared at John. "What do you want to know?"

"About what?"

"About what happened to you. What do you want to know? I feel you are able to handle some of the more unpleasant details now or to at least to discuss it."

"Okay," he said slowly.

"Start with what you already know." Sherlock's voice turned compassionate. John felt long feet tangle themselves up with his own under the table as if to give comfort. He cleared his throat and pursed his lips. He stared out the window at first as he found it easier to talk about without looking at Sherlock.

"I know some things. It's unclear and I'm confused, some of it is out of focus but I know this isn't me, this body I mean. It belonged to somebody else. Sebastian Moran." He blinked again and tried not to dwell on the horror this could turn into.

"You were deliberately shot by Moran in Afghanistan. Do you remember that?"

"Bits." John turned and looked across the table at the other man. "I remember being shot and I think I remember someone standing over me. But it was also in my dreams so it's hard to separate." He turned back to the window

The feet tugged a little on his ankles, one foot rubbed up and down on the back of his leg. "John, look at me."

He looked. He was being deduced again. Sherlock seemed impassive at first glance but he looked deeper into his eyes and they were warm and full of a mixed bag of emotions. Fear, but not of John, for John. Concern was there and worry but overriding them was something that John had never really seen on the Sherlock's face before. It was love. He felt his breath hitch.

"You are who I have always wanted. Do not be afraid to tell me what is in your head, John Watson."

"But what if I'm not who you think I am."

"John, this may not be the body you were born into, but it is yours. You are you. I have told you this many times and you know I dislike repeating myself, but for you I will make this exception." He scoffed and pretended to look annoyed but he wasn't succeeding. "Moriarty and Moran took your life. They took what did not belong to them and they used you like a puppet or a plaything. They took your thoughts and your memories and they put you inside the head of someone else. They stole from you every chance you could have had. If you had just been shot, just been wounded, who knows what would have happened. You might have come back to London. We both know Stamford; the odds are in our favour that we might have met."

He reached for John's hand, as it lay lax on the table. He captured it, brought it to his lips and he brushed the back of it gently. John never tired of looking at the pink and full mouth. "It doesn't matter what you look like. It doesn't matter because they took they best part of you. It's you inside, John. It always will be. You are perfect for me the way you are. I don't care about the rest." He stretched across and kissed John. The other man released the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. There was finally a letting go of something that had been consuming him. He had been afraid to talk to Sherlock about this because what if he didn't want him any more? The kiss helped to relax John, as an affirmation of what Sherlock had been saying, proof he was right and they were compatible. Proof Sherlock wanted him.

John drew back with some reluctance as a different thought pushed its way to the front.

"How did you know? I missed some of that. How did you do it?"

Sherlock smiled. He recognized that John, while he may never entirely be without worry, was slowly coming to terms with what had happened.

"We were suspicious almost from the start. Little things. Mycroft did a search or rather his people did. He wouldn't lower himself to do leg work," he scoffed. "You were reported shot but there was no record of your operation or recovery in an army hospital in the area of Afghanistan you were serving. Other things. The timing of your arrival was almost perfect. You," and Sherlock smiled a rare true smile, "were perfect. I have been looking for you all my life." He kissed John again. "And I am a convenient way to get to Mycroft. Not many others can. He has been the target of the rebels for a while now. This was certainly a novel approach."

"So what did you do?"

"I let Mycroft know my concerns, he let me know his. He was all set for getting rid of you." Sherlock said this very matter of fact. John stilled. "Oh don't worry. I wouldn't have let anything happen. You were and you are much too interesting to get away from me. I convinced him that I would not be pleased and we could capture who was behind this bold plan. We came up with an alternative. I took a blood sample after I drugged your tea the night you had that particularly horrible nightmare. I had it analyzed. Your blood contained nanites. You had said you hadn't had them for your surgery so where did they come from. All the pieces were falling into place. And then Moriarty showed his hand. A name I had been hearing since the cabbie. It seemed like another lovely game and there is no such thing as coincidence."

John winced and tried not to look upset.

"I didn't mean you, John. I never thought of you that way. But he did."

They were quiet for a moment.

"And then? How was I able to switch Moran off at 'The Pool' and shoot Moriarty? I was struggling to break through but I couldn't and then you said…you said those words…"

"Vatican cameos?"

"Yes, that, and it was all clear and I was me again. How did you do that?"

Sherlock lowered his eyes and frowned. "We had a sample of the nanites used on you. Mycroft and I were able to create new ones, designed specifically to destroy Moran and leave you whole. I programmed them to respond to the trigger or at least for your mind to respond. It was a bit of a guess as to whether it would work and there was a good chance it wouldn't." Sherlock looked uncomfortable. "It was the best I could give you. It might not have worked at all."

John looked thoughtful. "Maybe it was a combination of that and Wilson's message. I was already fighting. Maybe it helped." He shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not certain it's an experiment that can be repeated. Nor should it." He looked into the distance again and became very quiet once more.

Sherlock continued to hold his hand and stroke the back of it with his thumb. He was troubled by how close he came to losing everything he had within his grasp. He was aware he still could.

"John?"

"Mmmm, what?"

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked with the air of someone less than sure of himself.

"I don't know Sherlock. There are things I still have to work on. This is all very odd and unsettling. It does answer a number of questions and it makes sense for how I felt sometimes." He paused. "I guess we'll have to play it by ear. You are going to have to be patient whist I figure some of this out."

"I understand. I will wait for however long it takes." He stood, walked around the table and knelt between the doctor's legs, his hands on John's thighs, lightly stroking up and down in comfort. He wasn't sure whom the comfort was for. John stared at his detective. He lifted his hand and ran it through the riot of curls on Sherlock's head as the younger man leaned his head on John's thighs. He wrapped his arms around John's legs and hugged. John continued to run his hand through the soft hair. Sherlock could so easily have left him or handed him over to his brother for experimenting or worse.

"Come here," he said and matching actions with his words, he lifted the detective's face up reverently. He grabbed a fistful of Sherlock shirt and pulled him into a rough kiss, a demanding and desperate one. They broke apart and John smiled at Sherlock, his heart full of an ache that would never entirely go away, an ache of love and an ache of what might have been. It was a bittersweet moment.

Sherlock kissed his way down John's jaw and to his ear. "I haven't got any cases and you know how bored I can get. Take me to the bedroom." He pulled back a little and gave him those pleading eyes he used when he was trying to get away with something. Backing the look were the hands that slowly and sensuously made their way down John's back and pulled his t-shirt up and over his head.

John chuckled. "You are a very wicked man."

His detective lifted his eyebrows in surprise. "But you wouldn't have it any other way."

John answered with another kiss and stood and pulled a more than willing Sherlock to his feet. As they walked back toward the bedroom, he said, "What's this about you drugging my tea? And taking blood samples? And shooting me full of nanites? I think you are going to have to do some serious making up here."

Sherlock was hindered by the fact he was trying to remove both of their clothes at the same time. He let them fall to the floor as each piece came off.

"But I saved your life, Dr. Watson. I think you owe me. I have some very specific plans of what I want. Very specific."

John stopped for a moment and looked very seriously at the other. "Sherlock…I, I think …I…"

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John, deeply, teasingly, tangling their tongues together until John grew dizzy with want and need. "Me too, John. We will work this out." He carefully and gently pushed him the rest of the way into the bedroom.

Sherlock took him to bed, where he slowly took John apart with caresses and maddening touches. He used his clever lips and wicked tongue until John was a writhing messy, crying out Sherlock's name as he came. Licking and kissing his way up to John's mouth he kissed him and held him, until the trembling stopped. He always would.

And then, with patience and reverence, Sherlock put him back together again, like he did before, healed him with love. John would always be his to put together and keep whole. There would be many times, later, over the years, when John would return the favour.

Two disparate fragments of the same soul, they'd met under less than ideal circumstances, but in spite of the odds, they were meant to be together, forever.

oOo

Hughes stood in the narrow alley, waiting for the contact to arrive. He didn't have to wait long. He turned to the sound of high-heeled shoes tapping their way toward him.

A refined, polished voice spoke, "You have the item?"

"Yes. But I want to see the credits first."

"Naturally. Here you are. I have included a new identity for you and an open electron-ticket to wherever you wish to go. Now hand over the information please."

Hughes took the credits and the ticket and handed a microchip over containing all of the work he and Wilson had complied on John Watson and Sebastian Moran.

The other placed the chip into a hand held device, smaller than a 'phone.

"This looks very promising. But be warned, you are to never set foot in England again and you are to stay out of this particular form of research. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes." Hughes scurried away grateful for the opportunity to start fresh, grateful for his life. He certainly did better than Wilson.

The other turned and walked down the alley, back to the waiting car. A man was sitting waiting. He held out his hand and took the chip from the woman. "Thank you, my dear."

"Yes sir."

"Oh and Anthea? Keep tabs on my brother and his flatmate. If there are any changes to Dr. Watson's 'personality' I wish to be informed right away."

He paused a thoughtful expression on his face, "Shame," he murmured.

"What is, sir?"

"Oh nothing, really. Just thinking. It's just it's a shame Sherlock won't let me conduct any tests on Dr. Watson. It would be useful to see how well the memories hold. Good data for our own pet project and agents. Oh well. We shall have to muddle through on our own. Drive on, please," he called to the automated vehicle.

The car pulled away from the kerb and disappeared into the late night traffic.

A/N: Chapter title from the lyrics of the song The Cave by Mumford and Sons.

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