Just trying my hand at some actual Johnlock. Basically this author's opinion on the life these two could possibly have together. Perhaps a bit OOC just so you know. Enjoy.

Finality

It happens sooner than John expects and later than Sherlock anticipates.

A hand slams onto the wooden table, shattering the silence that has been occupying 221B for the majority of a week. John is standing, one hand curled into a fist and the other resting on the table top with fingers trembling. The sudden movement is a surprise to him, an uncontrollable need to suddenly be heard, to be seen and it rips through him without as much as a warning.

Sherlock is sitting in front of him, completely stoic, and it pisses him off. His face is a mask of calm and rational thinking and it makes him look like the sane one in the room. Inside they both know how untrue that statement is. Folding his newspaper, right hand moving fluidly over the left he quirks an eyebrow. Even his voice is the facade of calm.

"I assume you're seeking my attention." he folds his hands in his lap and smiles gently. Quickly before it disappears again. "You have it." A deep, shuddering breath escapes John's lips and he looks at the floor, then back up.

"You're here to stay, right? I'm not going to wake up and find your side of the bed empty anymore, or have to explain why I have all these things that just couldn't possibly belong to me? You aren't going to leave me to pick up the pieces on my own again, right?" His voice takes on a begging tone, panicky even. Sherlock stares, surprised but never breaking his composure. After a moment of silence he nods and swallows thickly.

"That's right," he replies quietly, picking up the paper once more. His hand is suspended in midair while he waits for a reaction. It happens so slowly he fears it will never come.

"Alright," John finally mutters, sinking back down in his chair. He meets Sherlock's gaze and nods his head with confidence. "That's good."

The conversation is never mentioned again. The nightmares seem to cease. They can finally breathe for the first time in six long months.

...

On a rainy day in April, nearly three months after the breakfast incident they sit on a park bench and ignore the beads of water that stick to their clothes and their hair. The rhythmic sound of the drops against the concrete ground is oddly soothing. Like the beat of a drum it echoes through their minds, reverberates through their bodies.

The case was long and tiring and John's eyes are constantly traveling to the bruise along Sherlock's jaw. The purple is such a startling contrast to his normally pale complexion and it makes John flinch. His nostrils flare in sudden anger and it doesn't go unnoticed. Sherlock's hand finds Johns and it squeezes his fingers tightly. Reassuring. Warm. It offers so much without the need for words and for that John is grateful. Knowing he doesn't have to do this alone is more comforting than Sherlock is even aware.

"Have you ever given much thought to being married?" The detective suddenly wonders aloud, startling John as his voice breaks through the steady beat of the rain. He furrows his eyebrows and tightens his grip on Sherlock's hand.

He wonders if maybe, it could be a trick question. The words are coming out of Sherlock's mouth but the voice is foreign to him. It's genuinely curious, no hints of teasing or skepticism hidden within and it's so unlike him. John watches him for a long moment before he nods his head. Slowly, as if he's afraid this isn't the answer Sherlock was seeking.

"I've thought about it as a teenager, prayed I'd live long enough to see it during the war. And then one day I met a consulting detective and I wasn't so sure anymore." He admits quietly. Looking up quickly he asks, "What about you? Has it ever crossed your mind?" Sherlock gives a breathy laugh, the throaty sound sending an involuntary tremor through John.

"Marriage is nothing but a piece of paper John. Love can thrive with or without it. Those who choose it are merely looking to prove something. A complete waste of time honestly." John chews his lip and thinks for a moment. For some reason the words cut into him, a dull ache he feels doesn't belong there.

"How come you asked me then?" Sherlock stops and stares at the ground, his reflection looking back at him from the puddle by his feet.

"If it's what would make you happy, than it's something I could learn to live with." He says seriously.

A hand reaches up, tracing the bruise on his jaw with the utmost gentleness. At first he cringes, but when the hand continues to move along his cheek, gracing across his lips so lightly he wonders if it's really there, he sighs and shuts his eyes. John's lips are next to his ear and hot breath hits his neck. A sense of familiarity.

"The only thing that can make me happy is being with you. Paper or no paper, I can be happy as long as you can."

...

"Are you sure it doesn't need medical attention?" Sherlock asks, peering down at the infant in John's arms with worry and distaste. The wailing seems to grow louder with each passing second.

"No, she's fine. Probably just needs a nap." Lestrade smiles from his seat on the couch, pride practically oozing from him as he watches his daughter squirm in John's arms. Molly grips his hand and smiles in a way only a new mother can, and Sherlock is hit with something he can't describe.

"Would you like to hold her?" John asks, pulling Sherlock from his stupor and nodding his head at the dark haired little girl he was cradling. Sherlock stares and his mouth opens slightly, as if he's about to speak. More than likely refuse. But much to John's surprise and Molly's delight he silently nods and holds his hands out.

With help from John he is eventually cradling the baby in his arms, staring at her in awe. Everyone in the room is silent; watching the exchange between Sherlock Holmes and a newborn is quite the sight after all. John wonders if he should get it on film.

After the sun has set and Lestrade and Molly have bundled their little one up and disappeared out the door, John is at the sink with hands plunged in hot soapy water. He keeps a careful eye on Sherlock as he scrubs at a plate. He hasn't spoken since the baby was placed in his arms.

"You alright?" He calls out. The silence that answers his call isn't something that would normally worry him but for some reason there's a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach and he can't help it. Dropping the plate back in the water he dries his hands and moves towards the couch.

"Sherlock?" His voice gently floats to the other man who, this time, lifts his head in acknowledgment and smiles. It's small, but it's a smile.

"Have you ever wanted a child, John?" Cocking his head to the side John laughs, the sound bellowing through the flat. When Sherlock furrows his eyebrows John realizes that the question was meant to be serious and his eyes take on an entirely different look as his exasperated sigh fills the living room.

"God, I don't know Sherlock. Why? Have you?"

"No, not really. Not until now at least." He admits, leaning back against the couch and sighing, "I think all of London knows I'm anything but fit to raise a child anyway." Settling down beside him John grips his hand, much like that day in the park his touch is reassuring. Warm.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are capable of anything. And if being a parent is something you want, then perhaps it's something we should think about. We've been together for two years, we've officially settled, maybe it's time we give it a try. I can see it in your eyes that you want this."

"I love you," Sherlock says, unprompted. It's one of the first times the words don't come as an answer to John's. it gives them both a little hope.

...

The car is filled with a stony silence, and John grips the steering wheel so hard his fingers have taken on a ghostly shade of white. He looks at Sherlock, arms folded across his chest and his forehead resting against the window.

John's jaw clenches and he finally has had enough. He pulls the car over on a small stretch of dirt. The sudden jerk of the car as it comes to a halt startles Sherlock but he doesn't move. Not until John has his hands gripping his shoulders, bringing the other man closer to him in a movement that is so fast it surprises both of them.

"Sherlock, look at me," he demands, voice so close to breaking it scares him. For some God forsaken reason he can't get Sherlock to just look at him. He shakes him roughly, finger tips pressed deep in the soft flesh of his shoulders. He wonders if it hurts.

"Sherlock," he tries again, and this time the dark, stormy eyes are staring a hole through him, filled with a thousand questions he just doesn't know the answer to.

"It didn't take, John." His voice is small and childlike and so different from Sherlock that it makes John physically ache. "This is the third try, and none of them will take. I don't know how much longer we'll be able to keep up with this."

He draws in a shaky breath and squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm tired, John. I'm exhausted and I don't think I can do much more of this." Pursing his lips John pulls Sherlock forward and gently rests his forehead against his own. He cups one side of Sherlock's face with his hand and strokes his cheek with his thumb.

"Come on now, it's alright. You heard what Emily said, she would be more than happy to try again. If you want we can-"

Sherlock shakes his head, "No, no more trying. It's.. maybe this just isn't for us John." The defeat that has entered Sherlock's voice makes John flinch, but the truth in the words is what hurts the most.

"Well, maybe you're right. Maybe it's just supposed to be the two of us." His throat becomes thick with tears, his gut churning at the realization that he isn't able to give the one person in his life the one thing he wants the most. It makes him sick when he thinks about it.

"Just know Sherlock, I will never leave. No matter what happens you will always have me. Alright?" He tilts Sherlock's chin towards him, speaking what seems like a thousand words in one simple stare. Swallowing thickly, Sherlock leans forward and captures John's lips in his own. When they pull away the silence around them speaks volumes. Loud enough to tell them all they really need is right in front of them.

...

Over the next few months, John convinces Sherlock to take a break from cases, to his surprise it's not as difficult as he thought, and the two take their first getaway alone in what feels like years. It's quiet and simple, a week long stay in a cabin overlooking the glorious, still water of a lake with a name they didn't bother to find out. They're too busy being wrapped up in each other. New opportunities to rediscover each other, memorize every line and scar and the story that accompanies each of them.

In John's mind the first trip is a turning point, it takes Sherlock's mind off of things and they're able to relax.

But before he can blink they're back in the city, working beside Lestrade and taking on clients that appear on the doorstep. John wants to say that it annoys him, but one look at Sherlock when they get a call reminds him that that thought is rubbish. And so he settles in beside him and they become, in his opinion, one of the best crime fighting duos he's ever seen. Their blog thrives once more and John finds he's in a place he never wants to leave.

He finally feels like he's found where he's supposed to be.

…

The first time John fears they've reached the end is during a kidnapping case that has Sherlock retreating to the confines of his mind, shutting everyone including John out. There's fighting and yelling and the question that's as sharp as a blade when John launches it across the flat at Sherlock in a blurred moment he'll probably never forgive himself for.

He blames it on age, the fact that he's exhausted but they still manage to keep this up.

"For fuck's sake Sherlock, why do you have to do that? Why do you have to shut me out? If you're so desperate to be alone why don't you just get out?" The air around them stills when the words leave his mouth and John freezes, realizing his mistake although they both know it's too late.

Sherlock doesn't answer him with words, but as he crosses the living room and grabs his coat and scarf from the chair John knows he's messed up. From his spot by the bedroom door he watches the other man walk out the door and in a moment of pure weakness he hasn't felt since the last time Sherlock left him he falls into bed and doesn't try to stop the tears.

He lets them fall and for once he's OK with it.

And the next morning, he wakes up and sees Sherlock next to him, watching him with exhausted eyes and a small, sad smile. Without breaking the silence John simply leans over and traps him in a kiss that leaves both of them breathless and the apology reflecting in their eyes. He strokes the side of Sherlock's face and his voice is nothing more than a strangled whisper.

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

"You're not going to leave are you?"

"I've already told you I'm never going anywhere."

And he never does.

…

Sherlock goes first at the age of eighty-two, quietly one night after they drift off to sleep. The last thing he tells John is a simple "I love you" before he kisses him like he always does and the next morning he doesn't stir. And sometimes John thinks it's better this way because he's had to live without Sherlock before, he knows he can handle it.

And the words replay in his head, the same words he's said for more than thirty years; although that night he feels that they meant more than they ever had before. And he carries them close to his heart for nearly two weeks before he breathes his last breath as well and the two are buried side by side beneath a fresh patch of earth on a rare day when the sun is shining and it looks like a scene from a movie.

All in all they agree that they've done good, the proof lying in the years spent growing old, traveling and doing what they loved. But most of all it came in spending every possible moment together, a bond no one could ever dream of breaking.