A/N: Just a couple things to help make reading this story easier. One, if the quote isn't exact, it's okay because these are memories and we never remember things EXACTLY they way they happened. I fought my OCD so hard not go and look up the quotes to make them perfect.

Italics: Song lyrics or memories
Bold: John's thoughts
Bold Italics: Text messages

Also thanks to my lovely beta old ping hai, who far more patient with me on this than is possible and not be a saint at this point. I'm a stubborn writer at heart and she has to put up with it.

UPDATE: It has come to my attention, through what I felt was a threatening manner, that this song includes copyrighted lyrics and is, therefore, breaking Section 8 part D of the Terms and Conditions for this site. As such, the lyrics have been removed as "requested". Because I feel this is a personal attack by a group of trolls, the lyrics have been removed a la Trent Reznor and Nine Inch Nails. It no longer has the offending lyrics, and therefore no longer is breaking the rules. I hope you enjoy despite this, and if you get confused, please view the original story here: www .deviantart art/ Madness - 370673099

[SCENE MISSING]

John stood in the center of the flat he had shared with Sherlock those fantastic eighteen months. He was back for the first time since Mrs. Hudson asked him to help her clean out Sherlock's things. He had promised to help her, oh, so many times. But he could never bring himself to walk up those seventeen steps. He looked around as the memories flooded him.

The human skull. Mrs. Hudson taking it away when Sherlock was obnoxious. Sherlock's insistence that it was real. John supposed it could be. It would fit with the rest of the genius's personality, if it was. It's a friend. Well, when I say friend…

What I said earlier was true, John. I don't have friends. I've just got the one. John clutched his heart as a tear rolled down his cheek. As a conductor of light you are unbeatable! John reached out and grabbed the back of Sherlock's chair and he struggled to find breath to fill his lungs. Was I not enough light, Sherlock? is that why you felt the need to do what you did?

That damn harpoon. He had come home covered in boar's blood. Well, that was tedious. John smiled softly at what his reaction had been. Not "Are you okay?" or "Dear god, what happened?" but You went on the Tube like that? Sherlock looked annoyed as he explained, None of the cabs would take me. Well, of course not, you daft git. They probably thought you'd murdered someone with that god-forsaken thing. And the fact that you refused to give the harpoon up probably didn't help either.

The Cluedo board still impaled on the wall. It's this or Cluedo. Sherlock had said. John smirked as he recalled his own reply. Oh no. We are never playing that again. Only Sherlock would think that the victim was the murderer. John cocked his head to the side. If the victim was the murderer didn't that mean that he committed suicide?

This is my note. That's what people do, isn't it? Tears rolled down his face in a stream now. The image of the bloody face and lifeless eyes of the brightest man he'd ever met burned into his mind's eye.

Why had John's heart broken this way? All he could see was the madness of a life he once lived. But was there another madness underneath it all? One he was starting to see?

[SCENE MISSING]

John clutched the back of the leather chair with such force, his knuckles were stark white. He thought he was done grieving Sherlock. He had left Baker Street. He had gotten a steady girlfriend. Gotten his own practice set up.

He thought he was happy. He had even stopped going to his therapist. He kept thinking that any day now he would walk into a jewelers and pick out a ring, but something always held him back.

John wasn't even sure what prompted him to come back to his old flat but the moment he walked in, the life he had before engulfed him. The excitement, that rush of adrenaline of their adventures came back in a flood. He hadn't been happy in his new life, the life he led since Sherlock had gone. Hell, he hadn't even been content. He had been lying to himself, telling himself that he had moved on, that he had let Sherlock go.

But if he had truly let his best friend go, then why every Sunday like clockwork, did he find himself at the cemetery? And yet, every week at 4pm, John found himself staring at that heartless black slab of marble. He assumed that because he had stopped begging for his miracle, that he had gotten over Sherlock's death. All he had done was force the emotions behind a flimsy dam that had broken upon John's return to the flat.

[SCENE MISSING]

John looked up when heard that step squeak. His hand went for the gun that hadn't been there since he left Baker Street. He cursed quietly to himself. He thought about ducking behind the chair but that was the way of a coward, and that was one thing John Hamish Watson was not. He would face this person head on. And hell be damned the consequences.

Who walked through the door, was a shock. This person wasn't a threat, but John wasn't sure he could consider the other man a friend, either. Because what kind of friend makes you watch him jump off a roof, pretend he's dead, and not tell you about it for two years?

Sherlock's voice rang out in the stillness of the flat. A single word. A name. "John." If John hadn't already been gripping the back of the chair he would have collapsed.

"You bastard! You utter bastard! Two years, Sherlock! Two fucking years of hell, torment and pain. And you just walk back in here like you never left." John was shaking as he moved from behind the chair, he took two steps toward the resurrected detective. John could feel the ire rise up like bile in his throat. He took a couple more steps and stopped just out of striking distance. John feared that if he got closer he would start hitting Sherlock and not be able to stop. It had happened before. And once that particular genie was let out of its bottle there was very little John could do to put it back in.

Sherlock stood still as John made his way over to him. His pale blue eyes darted over his friend's frame, taking note of the shaking, the bags under the eyes, the significant weight loss, the faint scent of perfume, the lines etched into an already weathered face. Sherlock's face fell. He had hurt John more than he had thought possible.

John clenched his fists but released them when he saw the look of deepest regret settle on Sherlock's features. In that moment, that flash of a instant, he realized what Sherlock meant to him. It wasn't just friendship, companionship, or camaraderie. It was deeper. Love. He was in love with Sherlock. He sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands as his emotions ran the gamut.

Shock was the first to hit him. How could he have been in love with someone and not realized it? He must have fallen in love before Sherlock left him. But when? Did it really matter?

Acceptance came next. He was in love with a mad man. And with acceptance came relief. That knowledge of why he couldn't move on made him realize that he wasn't broken, that others weren't callous and forgetting too soon, but that they didn't feel the depth of emotion, love and sentiment that John felt for this brilliant man.

Then fear. What if Sherlock could tell the doctor's feelings for him? What would he do? Was it even possible for detective to feel the same?

But that fear was washed away in the feeling of warmth that surrounded him in the form of the long arms of the man he loved. John wrapped his arms around the slender waist of his detective.

"I'm sorry, John. So sorry. If I could have done it any other way, I would have."

John looked up into his eyes. "I don't understand, why didn't you trust me?" his voice cracked under the emotional strain.

"It wasn't that I didn't trust you, John. God no." Sherlock's arms wrapped tighter around his friend. "I knew Moriarty was gunning for you. That he would try and use you to hurt me." John's confusion was evident in the furrow of his brow. "Don't you remember what he said would happen if I didn't stop meddling?"

John thought for a moment. The scene played out in his head.

…I will burn the heart out of you.

Sherlock had smirked. I have been reliably informed I don't have one. John knew Sherlock had been referring to him when he said that.

We both know that's not entirely true. John frowned in thought. There was something else. Something he had missed…. There it was! Moriarty had flicked his eyes his direction. John was Sherlock's heart. He let out a small gasp. Sherlock gave him a sad smile.

"But it wasn't just you he was after," Sherlock informed him. "He was far more clever than I gave him credit. While you more certainly take up the largest portion of my heart, you are not the only one to occupy space."

John cocked his head to the side, curious.

"He had gunmen stationed to take out you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade."

Just one was bad enough, but all three of them? Sherlock wouldn't have been able to survive with his sanity intact. Well…as much sanity as one could have and still be Sherlock Holmes.

"But he wasn't clever enough," Sherlock continued. "He forgot who my brother was. What the government had hired him for to begin with." Sherlock took John's face in his hands. "My brother has one talent I don't, one that makes him far more clever than I. One that makes him literally the most dangerous man you have ever met."

"Including Moriarty?" John asked incredulously.

"Including him, John. Mycroft can see patterns. See all the possible moves and adapt to the changes. When he says he's stopped civil wars, riots, and uprisings, he means it quite literally."

"But he sold you out to Moriarty! How can you say that?" John's voice was filled anguish.

"Because he didn't. The information he gave him was vague and wouldn't have held up if that Kitty person had done her homework. But she was so hurt by me outing her as a sneaky up-and-coming journalist that she would lap up any and all nasty things about me and not think to check it out."

"Wait…it was a setup? How long?"

"Since The Woman."

John blinked. "I'm not sure I understand that."

"Moriarty was helping her. Against both Mycroft and me."

"What did Moriarty have against your brother?"

"Remember that pattern ability I told you about?" John nodded. "Who do you think was selling the weapons or inciting those riots?"

"Oh, oh my god."

Sherlock further explained the plot to rid the world of the nastiest spider. He told of the ruse, the bait and switch, and the sanctioned hits on more than a dozen leaders of Moriarty's organization.

"Did you kill them yourself?" John asked, worried for his friend in ways he couldn't quite fathom.

"Only two of them," Sherlock replied. John didn't need to ask who they were, it was clear it was the assassins that were on him and the others.

"And the third, what happened to him?"

"We needed Col. Sebastian Moran alive, so that no one would take his place. I wanted to kill him with my bare hands but cooler heads prevailed."

"He was mine then?" John smiled fondly up at the genius. Sherlock blushed.

[SCENE MISSING]

The next couple of weeks were a mad whirlwind of declarations of life, press, and clearing Sherlock's name. John barely had time to breathe, let alone wonder about his feelings toward the dark-haired detective.

Sherlock did seem to allow John's new proclivity toward being highly tactile to him. Sherlock was of course aware why John was suddenly more tactile than he had ever been, even if his blogger wasn't.

In the chaos of cases and press and Sherlock coming back from dead, John felt strangely adrift. He began to wonder if the love he held for Sherlock was grief and happiness at his return, or if the feelings were real. Sherlock certainly seemed to capture his attention with every movement he made, but was that just fear? Fear that he might vanish again? Fear of being left behind?

John knew the only way to find out for sure would be to tell the detective about what he was feeling. Or not. It was possible Sherlock wouldn't understand what John meant. He could talk to Mrs. Hudson about what he was feeling for the detective but he had a hunch that regardless of whatever his feelings were or weren't toward his manic flatmate that she would push toward a relationship.

Mycroft was out. Caring wasn't an advantage according to the politician, who would lean toward not messing up that bit of programming in Sherlock. John sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. Harry was out. She was still in rehab. Court appointed this time. She had been caught driving drunk. That left Mike and Greg. Mike would just commiserate. Greg it was, then. Damn. He sent a text.

Care for a pint?- JW

Sure meet you at the usual at 8- GL

John sighed. He wasn't sure if it was relief or disappointment that drove that sigh, he hoped he would be able to figure it out by the end of the night.

He walked into the bar that had become their usual spot when they got together during the Great Hiatus, as Sherlock was calling it, and Greg was already waiting for him. John ran a hand through his hair and made his way to their table.

"Well, we haven't done this in awhile," Lestrade said as John sat down. "What brought it on this time?"

John ordered his round and looked down morosely at the table until the waitress brought pints for both of them.

He sighed and ran his finger around the edge. "I think I'm in love with Sherlock."

Greg choked on his beer. "Come again?" he sputtered.

"I know, it's completely out of the blue, but what else could have kept me from moving on for so long?" John explained.

Greg thought about it for a moment. "You've always been close, John. Everyone around you saw the instant connection you two had just after knowing each other for a scant couple of hours. No one was expecting you to move on quickly. Were we worried when it seemed to stretch on indefinitely, oh hell yes. Yes, you had a girlfriend and new place, but we could see that you were barely holding it together.

"Did we think that you guys were more than friends? Ain't gonna lie, mate, more than once. Not in the way most people did, nothing sordid. But let's face it, John, you made him the good man we all hoped he could be. Because the Sherlock I knew before you came along would have laughed at Moriarty's threat and walked away without a second thought who was killed as long as he won. He wouldn't have faked his death for us and Mrs. Hudson."

John shook his head. "Why didn't he tell me? I could have helped. I could have-"

"Done what, John? If the both of you had gone off it would have been suspicious and that could have gotten me or Mrs. Hudson killed. Is that what you would have wanted?"

John bowed his head. "No." He looked up at Greg. "It just hurt so much having him gone."

"So I guess the real question, John, is what is keeping you two together at this point? The madcap friendship you guys had before his Fall or the love that everyone else has seen since day one?"

[SCENE MISSING]

John supposed it was a good thing that they could still have rows that would shake the roof. It meant they weren't dancing around each others' feelings. As John hunched his shoulders against the driving rain, he couldn't even remember what had started this particular fight.

He supposed it was like any other.

She's dying! You machine!

Alone is what protects me, came the quiet response. John should have realized that there was something wrong then, but he had been too hurt and angry to see the signs.

No, friends protect each other.

You're disappointed. Sherlock drawled.

That's a good deduction, yeah. John had shot back, incredulous.

Don't make people into heroes, John. They don't exist. And even if they did, I wouldn't be one of them. Made a liar out of yourself on that one, didn't you? You made yourself into the biggest hero the world had ever seen, sacrificing yourself to save your friends.

Why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend.

I don't have friends! John could still feel the vitriol Sherlock spat his direction that night.

I wonder why. John had gotten up like nearly every other fight before and walked away before he had done something stupid like hit the stupid git and start a brawl in the inn.

Of course Sherlock's apology was sweet and so very Sherlock. Couldn't come out and say 'I'm sorry.' No, he had to go about it the long way. But it was those words were the ones that had gotten him through the darkest times.

They never had fought over the normal things like rent, groceries and bills. Well, not in the normal way. It was mostly "Mrs. Hudson, is going to raise the rent because you blew up her kitchen, for the third time this week." or "I have to buy new tea again, why?" or "For god's sake, Sherlock. If you don't take this case you'll be out of money again, and I refuse to explain to Mrs. Hudson that you spent the rent money on dead rats!"

They fought about heads in the fridge. About John being used as a test subject, again. Sherlock would never would use John for something really dangerous, like poisons or drugs that might permanently harm him and of course Sherlock would stop before it could get to that point, but it would still cause a fight. Particularly since Sherlock would refuse to tell John he was being used; would contaminate the results, apparently.

All of it was mad of course. And John wouldn't have it any other way. He smiled as he made his way home.

[SCENE MISSING]

It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to be in a strop. But this one seemed to stretch on for days. He wouldn't even take cases. John smiled down at his friend as he lay on the couch, curled up into a ball.

It was hopeless, helpless, undeniable love. Why else would he stay here when Sherlock did things like this?

John bent down, picked up his friend and cradled him to his chest. "Come on you. Let's get you into bed," he whispered and carried Sherlock down the hall to the dark-haired man's bedroom. He laid him on the bed and removed the robe from his slim frame. He tucked him in.

John smiled down at the man who had captured his heart so thoroughly. He ran his fingers through Sherlock's soft curls. Sherlock murmured and lifted his head to press against John's hand like a cat.

That's what you needed, wasn't it? You needed to feel wanted, cared for. Well, you'll get all that and more from me, Sherlock.

"I'm here, Sherlock." And with that Sherlock drifted off to sleep.

The next day saw the detective up and running again, so John made it his mission to be especially caring when Sherlock was gearing up for one of his black moods. John was starting to notice a pattern in the moods as well. When a case went badly, when the police took credit for his work in the press, when he failed to solve the case, (yes, that was rare but Sherlock wasn't perfect) these moods would come on. John was already used to calling him brilliant and amazing, but when the taller man moved toward these darker thoughts, John would make sure that Sherlock knew where John stood. He would make sure to write up the case on his blog about how clever Sherlock had been. Or remind the detective that it was a tragedy he couldn't solve it because no one else could.

"Mycroft could," came the huffed response to the last one.

"But he hasn't and isn't likely to try, now is he?" John would retort, and Sherlock would smile.

[SCENE MISSING]

They had been working on case in the country when the topic first came up.

"I have a home in Sussex," Sherlock blurted out as they made their way to the inn where they would be staying.

"Really?" Sherlock nodded. "Now is this a house like I'm used to, or is this more of a Henry Knight type house in the country?"

"Honestly, John. I thought you would have known by now. It's more like a manor…" Sherlock winked at his friend. John laughed. "It's actually a small cottage where my family would go in the summer months and get away from servants and the trappings of wealth to recharge."

"Sounds lovely. I'd like to see it some day," John told him, a smile gracing his face.

"When we're done with this life, this crazy life we lead, when we are too old to go chasing after criminals and outrunning Scotland Yard, I'd like for us to retire there," Sherlock went on to explain.

John could see their life spread out in front of him. The two of them smiling and laughing as John gardened and Sherlock tended bees. In his mind's eye John could tell that they were a couple from the looks that they gave each other. It was perfect. It was the life of two men that had done more than their share and had finally come to terms with their old age. They were happy.

"That would be lovely, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at John for a moment before turning and walking down the path to the inn. They shared a room like they'd always done, but this time there was a mix-up and there was only one bed.

John sighed at the arrangement; he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep his feelings for the detective to himself if they had to share a space.

There was a couch and John offered to bunk down there. Sherlock merely shrugged and John's brow furrowed in disappointment. He turned away and started to unpack his toiletries.

Sherlock huffed. "What, John? What?" John whirled around, every inch of his hurt etched in his face.

"I guess I'm expecting you to care." John marched into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, taking the caution not to slam it. He slid to the floor, his back pressed against the door. He gave a slight shuddering breath.

On the other side, Sherlock stood his hand pressed against the door, his head resting against its solid weight. He whispered, "I do care, John. More than you will ever know."

When John got out, Sherlock was asleep on the couch, or at least pretending to be. John smiled down at him. I've been doing that a lot, looking down at him as he sleeps. I guess I can't believe that this mad man is my life. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

He shook Sherlock's shoulder, and he opened his eyes and leaned his head back to look John in the eyes.

"Come on, you. We can share the bed," John told him. Sherlock smiled softly and let John help him stand. They lay down, their backs facing each other. In the darkest hour of the night John could have sworn he heard the barest whisper on the other side of the bed say, "I've always cared. I always will, even if I'm no good at showing it."

[SCENE MISSING]

John woke the next morning to see the sunlight glinting off Sherlock's dark tresses. He was also deliciously warm. He counted limbs and realized that he had an extra arm, draped lightly over his chest. He grinned broadly. Sometime in the night Sherlock had entangled himself with John's body.

John snuggled closer, reveling in the warmth. Sherlock lifted his head sleepily.

"Morning, John," the detective muttered, squeezing John briefly before getting up. John mourned the loss of both the detective and the warmth he provided. He lay there as Sherlock got the first shower, wondering about the meaning of the squeeze. Was it a hug or something else?

The taller man exited the bathroom to see John still lying there looking up at the ceiling, one arm thrown over his forehead.

"And here I thought military habits were ingrained for life," he smirked.

"One of those habits," John muttered, not bothering to even open his eyes, "is taking whatever rest one can when they are able because they don't know when the next bout of sleep will come. Something that has only been further instilled by living with you."

Sherlock chuckled. "Well, the shower is all yours." John merely grunted, so Sherlock took matters into his own hands. He leaped over the foot of the bed and on to his side. He ripped the blankets and sheet away from John's form before the poor doctor had time to react. John shrieked his protest and continued to shriek as his mad flatmate began to tickle him.

In John's struggle to get away he fell to the floor with a heavy thump. Sherlock looked down at him a mixture of surprise and satisfaction on his face.

"You git," John huffed as he tried to catch his breath. He looked up at Sherlock and realized he needed Sherlock, he needed to love this man. There could be no one else. No one else could give him everything he needed.

[SCENE MISSING]

John wondered why they even bothered kidnapping him. You would think that they would take the smarter of the two so that they had a chance of not being caught but no, they left Sherlock to be the one to find him and there was no place on this green earth for them to hide once they had threatened his best friend.

Granted John would have liked to be more than friends but he'd take being the best friend if it meant a speedy recovery. They were forcing him to make a video with the ransom demands. It wasn't John's first and working with Sherlock, he was sure it wouldn't be his last.

He sighed and began reading their demands from the stupid placard.

"If you wish to see me safely returned, you will drop off all your notes on the case," John inwardly scoffed at that one. Sherlock kept everything in his mind palace, John was the one that needed to take notes.

"At the location provided when they text you in an hour. Then you will leave town and head for London. If you do all that is asked I will be let go in 24 hours."

Then John mouthed the words, "Trust in your dream." And then he closed his eyes against the harsh light of the torch they shined in his eyes. The cuffed him and his head rocked back.

Come on, Sherlock. Come on and rescue me. You have captured me, don't let them win. You know they won't let me go. You know the second they get the notes, my notes for god's sake, that they will kill me. Please Sherlock, rescue me.John's thoughts ran in circles, begging for his friend to find him.

Ten minutes before they sent the damn text, the doors to his prison were wrenched open to reveal a very angry detective. Seeing the bruise beginning to form on the side of John's face he growled.

"It's a good thing those idiots are in custody or I would have had to kill them for this," Sherlock told his blogger as ran a gentle finger over the bruise. It sent a shiver down John's back.

John opened his eyes. "I knew you would find me."

The constable that had been helping them with the case walked in just then. "I still don't understand how he managed to be honest. There was nothing on the DVD that even suggested where you were."

John just smiled up at Sherlock. Sherlock grinned and whirled around to face the constable.

"As ever, you see but don't observe. John mouthed the words that would insure my finding him." The constable looked confused and John just chuckled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the pair of them. "When we first arrived John and I talked about retiring when we got too old to be chasing criminals anymore. I mentioned Sussex, bees and a cottage. By mouthing the words 'Trust in you dream' what he was actually saying was…"

"The cottage on Sussex Street, first floor," John and Sherlock said together.

The constable crossed his arms in front of his chest, "I get Sussex and cottage but how does bees equal second floor?"

John chuckled again, "Home."

The constable still looked confused. Sherlock let out a huff impatience. "221B Baker Street. Our flat is on the first floor. B for us would be the first floor." John smiled.

"Brilliant," John breathed. This time Sherlock chuckled.

"Well, you were the one that thought of it," Sherlock replied. John just kept smiling as Sherlock finally released him from his bonds.

John stood and found quite quickly that his legs wouldn't hold his weight. He fell into Sherlock's arms. Suddenly there was a roaring in his ears, feeling of dropping in his stomach and the lights going out.

[SCENE MISSING]

When John woke up in hospital, he wasn't surprised to find that he was alone. Now that John had been rescued, Sherlock had gone off on some tear or another. He sighed. The nurse came in to check on him shortly after.

"Well, there you are, Dr. Watson. We were beginning to worry for a bit there. Your vitals were good, but you still weren't waking. We notified your next of kin."

John groaned. The last thing he needed was his sister showing up drunk off her ass.

"She…um…"

"Was highly inebriated?" John supplied.

"I was going to say completely sloshed but that's a nicer way of putting it," the nurse smiled.

John chuckled. "So tell me what happened to have me end up here?" he asked.

"Well, forced to sit for that long caused blood loss to the legs, as well as a minor case of dehydration," she told him, placing her hand on his arm reassuringly.

"Yes, that would do it alright. So basically I got released from kidnappers and fainted, thereby ending up in hospital. How long have I been out?"

"About six hours; it's eight o'clock in the evening now," she smiled again.

She had a pretty smile. Her green eyes lit up the room, and if truth be told, she was a gorgeous woman. He knew he should move on; that Sherlock would be too stubborn to admit that there was anything more than friendship between them. But looking at this beautiful woman who was clearly flirting with him, he knew that there would never be anyone other than Sherlock.

Her smile faded a bit, "We had a bit of trouble with the man that brought you in, though."

"That doesn't surprise me," John said, nodding. "I swear his middle name is trouble. What did he do?"

"He refused to leave after visiting hours were over. We had to have security forcibly remove him from your room," she saw the look of consternation on his face and rushed to further explain. "You see, he wasn't family or spouse and the hospital has very strict rules about that sort of thing."

Outside the room they could hear the sounds of raised voices. One John recognized as the baritone of his flatmate and he chuckled. The nurse looked at him and hurried out to stop the mad man from entering his room. She was deftly brushed aside and four men entered his room.

The Holmes brothers stood side by side and DI Lestrade stood only a step behind them his hands in his trench coat's pockets. The fourth man was a short, older administrator type who it looked to be trying to reason with the elder Holmes.

"This is clearly unorthodox. You aren't kin. I don't care what kind of government weight you fling around here, it's simply not done!"

Sherlock rounded on the man. "We are more his family then that awful sister of his. Now begone! Before I tell the papers of your affairs with two nurses, three female doctors, and your secretary!" The man paled and ran out the room. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.

John outright laughed. "Please tell me you were only saying that to get of him."

Mycroft sniffed disdainfully. "Of course not, John. Though Sherlock did miss the one male nurse and the head of oncology."

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm glad to see you're awake, John. I'm sorry wasn't there when you awoke," he said and moved to take John's hand.

"So I hear you fainted," Lestrade teased.

"Yes, well. So would have you after being tied up for thirteen hours," John retorted.

"It took Sherlock that long to find you?" Lestrade muttered. Sherlock issued a growl.

"He wasn't there when I was taken and had no idea where I was even taken from. No one could find clues from nothing."

Sherlock smiled fondly down at his blogger. Mycroft coughed discretely and Lestrade got the hint and the two of them left Sherlock and John alone.

"I was afraid I lost you," Sherlock murmured.

"Not going to happen, Sherlock," John told him. "I'm here until the end." I love you.

"I love you." John looked up at him sharply. Sherlock blushed. "I've loved you for so long. I was going to tell you after the case was over. It took that talk of us retiring to the country to realize you felt the same."

"Oh." John pulled Sherlock down for a kiss. He didn't care who saw them. It was mad. It was wonderful. It was their own unique love.

Their love was madness. It always was. It always would be.

Madness