Hello, dear readers... if anyone is left! My heartfelt apologies that it's taken me so long to write this little epilogue, though in my defence my studies went into overdrive and I'm currently attempting to write my dissertation... But enough about that. Another reason it's taken this long to update is that I rather lost impetus after the big showdown... and to be honest I didn't really want to let go of this fic. It's taken me over two years to write, albeit with much stopping and starting and over a year to post in full. It's been a big part of my life and a lot has changed during its writing - notably that I've moved house, my boyfriend is now my fiancé (woohoo!) and I've proved to myself I CAN write and finish great big long stories and maybe writing a novel isn't such a pipe dream after all. And I got to connect with all you lovely people who have provided nothing but help and encouragement. One last great big thank you to everyone who had read, favourite and reviewed this crazy tale. GarnetDark, you can call me Elizabeth, or Lizzie, by the way ;-) And Nonimouse... thank you very much for everything, and pay attention to John's dream for a few hints about a sequel...

And without further ado...

Three months later:

John was standing in a little clearing in the midst of a frozen forest. Tall, imperious pines. Heedless of frost and snow, they reached upwards towards a night sky so studded with blazing stars that there was barely any deep, fathomless black to be seen.

Behind him, he heard a deep, rattling breath that sounded like a growl. A cold, deeper and more bitter and biting than any he had ever known, twined itself around his ankles and legs, stroked him with icy fingers.

Sadness, a great sadness and loneliness.

She will not hurt you, not so long as I am here.

John turned to find the one who had spoken inside his head. He saw only shadows, gathered into a form nearly seven feet high, but with antlers, such as might be found only on the mightiest of stags, growing from its head.

She is not your enemy John, said the voice inside his head. But beware the man who is. He comes from the North. A spectre from the North.

'What can I do?' John asked it.

He felt, rather than saw, the shadow's smile.

Fly, John.

Fly.

And John did as he was bid, spreading strong wings and with one leap, sending himself soaring upwards towards the sky.

John woke then.

It was warm, not freezing. He was in a hotel room, not a forest. And he wasn't alone.

The heat of the summer's day had lingered through most of the night, but now, in the small hours, a cool breeze was finally blowing, ruffling the water of the canals and causing the gauzy curtains to billow inwards into the hotel room. Despite his dream, John woke quietly, and watched the movement of the curtain material for a few moments, before rising from bed, wrapping a sheet around himself to preserve his modesty and going and looking for Sherlock.

He didn't have to look far. Sherlock was out on the balcony, gazing at the lights and islands of Venice spread out below them. He was naked, and John took a moment to appreciate the tall, lean, elegant figure leaning against the balustrade, pale and almost luminescent in the moonlight and yellow lamplights.

'Trouble sleeping?' he asked, joining Sherlock at the stone railing. Sherlock shrugged.

'No, I'm fine. I don't need much sleep.' Sherlock glanced down at John, who was taking in the view appreciatively. 'I don't want to sleep anyway. I don't want to miss anything. All of this, any of this, I had none of it for five years, and now…'

John said nothing, merely leaning on Sherlock and resting his head on the other man's shoulder. Their trip to Venice had been a spur of the moment decision. They had settled into 221b with a minimum of difficulty, and almost immediately started behaving like an old married couple – the arguments, the exasperation, the familiarity, the comfort, the delight in privacy, of having a place of their own.

Not to mention making love whenever they felt like it. Which was still ridiculously often, such as the never to be forgotten morning when their breakfast was delayed for three hours and ended being eaten by Raghnaid, who had wandered by to say hello and promptly started raiding the kitchen when she saw they were occupied. No-one minded that, but then she started proffering lovemaking advice, telling Sherlock to put his back into it…

The look on Mycroft's face when he found Raghnaid being pursued all over the mansion by a stark naked, mortally offended Sherlock whilst a half-clad John tried to play peacemaker and Molly and Greg watched appreciatively had been absolutely priceless. Long story short, after yet another brotherly contretemps, John had convinced Sherlock it would be a good idea to go away for a while and let Mycroft have the mansion to himself – and Greg and Molly, who had all but moved in.

Greg and Molly had settled into life at the mansion with a minimum of difficulty, embarking on magical studies under Mycroft's tutelage and becoming fast friends with Mrs Hudson. Greg and Mycroft were still dancing round each other, both unsure and unwilling to make the first move, but Molly and Raghnaid had founded what Greg dryly termed the 'mutual admiration society' and couldn't bear to be apart for long. Greg and Molly were still officially employed by the Police, but John reckoned it was only a matter of time before they submitted their resignations to become full-time magicians.

John himself was undecided about his future. He didn't simply want to surrender his career as a doctor – he'd worked too long and hard to establish himself. And he didn't want his healing magic to become a crutch, a shortcut to helping people because he had become too lazy or too conceited to use his skills as a medical professional, to take the lengthier, more difficult method of healing people.

Magic was wondrous, and clever, and sometimes beautiful, and sometimes fearsome. But John didn't want to reduce his magic to a toy or a tool to be used without much thought. He remembered all Sherlock had told him about the Power of Three and how the universe ensured magicians always got what they deserved. And so although he wasn't sure Sherlock would understand, John knew their future, his future, needed to be talked about.

But not just yet. Tonight, there was Venice, and the two of them, free of Moriarty, curses, danger, free to be together.

'You won't miss anything else, Sherlock, not if I can help it,' John said softly.

Sherlock smiled.

'You've already given me more than I ever dared to dream of,' he said, in a rare and most embarrassing moment of sentiment. 'My freedom, the defeat of my greatest enemy, my light magic.' He paused for a moment. 'Your affections,' he added stiffly.

John burst out laughing. Sherlock looked affronted.

'My affections, Sherlock? Goddess wept,' he exclaimed, unconsciously using an oath common among magic-handlers. 'I love you, you berk. In a true-love-conquers-all, Meatloaf and I'd-Do-Anything-For-Love way. You don't have to say it out loud, not if you don't want to. But don't resort to such wish-washy words for it! It's almost as bad as saying you care for me.'

'What's wrong with that?' Sherlock asked, intrigued. John rolled his eyes, Sherlock-fashion.

'Caring for someone is what you do for a distant aunt, or a bloody goldfish, Sherlock. If caring for someone is all you can offer them, then you've no business being together. I had a girlfriend, once, who told me she cared for me. I made the mistake of thinking her unemotional exterior hid deep, passionate feelings. Turned out it hid an unemotional interior. It wasn't one of my better relationships.'

Sherlock was pouting like a sulky teenager by this point. 'John, I feel the need to point out we're on our honeymoon. Any mention of your multitude of ex-girlfriends is at best inappropriate, at worst likely to result in my abstaining from sex for the rest of our time here, and possibly for a few weeks after we return home.'

'Sorry,' John said, contrite. 'But if it helps, Sherlock, with you everything, every feeling is amplified. You annoy me the most out of anyone I've ever met, make me angrier than anyone I've ever met… and you've made me love you more than anyone else I've ever loved. It's exhausting but… but brilliant.'

Sherlock was still pouting, but John, accustomed to his every gesture and expression, could tell he was mollified. Sherlock turned back to survey Venice, the beautiful city spread out below them. Aside from a visit to the famed glassblowers that John had insisted upon (he'd bought a little glass bird for Mrs Hudson and a little glass flower for Molly) they had seen barely anything of the city. They had been… otherwise occupied.

'Just don't bring up your former relationships,' Sherlock said firmly. 'It's not standard honeymoon protocol, of that I am certain.' He paused, musing for a moment. 'What do people do on their honeymoons, anyway?' he asked, genuinely curious.

'You do know we're not actually married, Sherlock?' John remarked, grinning wickedly. The muscles in Sherlock's thighs twitched at the sight.

'Mere detail,' he answered condescendingly, waving imperiously to cover his sudden confusion.

'Well, come here and I'll explain it again,' he heard John say, his voice fading, and he turned to see John wandering back into their hotel room. The cool breeze brushed against his naked form, suddenly cold as heat surged between his legs. Smiling, he followed John into their room and towards their nice big bed.

Pin your heartbeat up against my heartbeat and we'll see how well we rhyme…

John couldn't remember where he'd first heard that song, but he knew by now that he and Sherlock rhymed perfectly. They knew one another – the rhythm of each other's bodies, how to pleasure one another, John knew the gentle slope of Sherlock's shoulders, Sherlock the light dusting of freckles on his lover's back and the knot of scar tissue on John's shoulder.

But they discovered more, each and every time they made love. And sentimental it might have been, but what they did was lovemaking, something deeper and more meaningful and more memorable than simply a bout of sex. Even their simplest encounters, those without games, without toys, without taking place somewhere outlandish, without the danger of someone walking in on them, those couplings that were just John and Sherlock and a bed and their two bodies moving in perfect unison, were as thrilling, and sensual and tender as could be wished.

Tonight, in Venice, there was just John and Sherlock and a bed. And desire, as strong and piercing and overwhelming as it had been their very first time together. Perhaps even more so, now that it had free reign. Now that Sherlock was free to be a man, free to allow his desire to run rampant, and now he was free to be desired in turn.

They stood facing one another, close but not touching, feeling the warmth from each other's bodies even at a distance. Slowly, Sherlock reached out and tugged the sheet away from John's hips, letting it fall to the floor, so John was naked in the shadows of their room. Nothing at all between them. John looked up into Sherlock's eyes, and flushed and looked away at the depth of love and wanting he saw there.

Sherlock smiled at John's adorableness, and reached out and gathered John to him gently. For a long moment they just stood there, holding one another, feeling the warmth of one another's skin and the alternate hardness and softness of curves and muscles… and the heat and length of their respective arousals. Gently, Sherlock rubbed himself against John, even that small motion making him tremble with the sensation.

John smiled, eyes bright with lust and wanting. And then, playfully, he threw himself backwards onto the bed, pulling Sherlock with him. Sherlock let out a surprised yelp, which was cut off abruptly when John covered his mouth and began kissing the hell out of him.

The touch of lips, the hands roaming freely and caressingly, the warmth, the wanting… It never palled, never grew tiresome or predictable. For Sherlock, it was an ongoing wonder, how he could know John so intimately, yet still discover and rediscover things about his lover. John's power to surprise him seemed limitless.

'John, my own John,' he murmured softly in the other man's ear. John arched his back, pressing himself up against Sherlock, hands reaching up to tug and tease Sherlock's dark curls. Sherlock almost purred in satisfaction, before sweeping a teasing hand down John's back, and then gently inserting a finger somewhere very intimate.

John went rigid in his arms, eyes rolling back in his head as he gasped for air. Whatever Sherlock was touching, it ignited a pleasure so intense it was almost painful, the pressure exploding upwards from his centre and threatening to break him into pieces.

Sherlock watched him keenly. Before meeting John, he had cared little for giving joy or pleasure to others, but he knew now that he would never tire of watching John writhe or exclaim with passion, never get fed up of being the one to give it. Perhaps it was John's unselfishness rubbing off on him at last. More likely John was just an exception to all Sherlock's usual rules and expectations.

Just to prove the point, with a Herculean effort, John managed to gain semi-control of his muscles and rolled away from Sherlock, freeing himself from the other man's clever hands. Before Sherlock could react, John got behind him and threw his arms around Sherlock, pinning his arms to his sides. Once he was sure of his grip, John let his hand drift lower, seizing hold of Sherlock's arousal.

Sherlock shuddered at the sensation, and John smiled wickedly as he felt his lover shiver in his embrace. He began stroking Sherlock's shaft, feeling the pre-cum sticky on his hand, feeling the warmth and the thickness of his lover's cock. He stroked harder, faster, feeling Sherlock writhe and squirm, held captive in his arms.

'Oh, you like that, do you?' he whispered in Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock tried to say obviously, but it came out as a strangled moan. He tried to pull away, but though John was the smaller man he was compact and strong, well able to keep a hold on Sherlock. He tightened his grip, both on Sherlock and the other man's cock, showing him no mercy. Sherlock tensed in John's arms as the pressure built in his groin, pleasure threatening to overwhelm him.

'John – wait, wait,' he managed to gasp.

John's hands stilled at once.

'What is it, Sherlock? Was I too rough?' John asked him, voice deep with desire.

'No, no,' Sherlock answered breathlessly. 'Don't make me come just yet, though – I want – I want –'

'Yes?'

'You. Inside. Me,' Sherlock explained, a blush spreading from his face to envelope his entire body in a beguiling shade of deep pink. He felt raw and exposed, voicing his desire, but the prospect of being taken by John, of giving himself to the other man in such a way, was too tantalizing. He hungered to possess John, to claim him, but he had begun to feel a craving to be possessed and claimed by his lover in the same manner. Now he was free, he wanted to be held captive.

Strange. But intriguing.

He twisted round to glance at John, and was glad he was already sitting down. The smile of pure lust on John's face was enough to make anyone's kneecaps go AWOL.

'You sure?' John asked, voice coming out soft, caressing. Sherlock shivered to hear it.

'Yes,' he whispered.

John wasted no more time, but let go of Sherlock and went to rummage in his suitcase. Sherlock would have protested, but John returned within moments, lube in hand. He forestalled any protests from Sherlock with a quick kiss, before getting hold of his shoulders and laying him face down on the bed.

'Just relax, Sherlock,' John murmured to him. 'If this causes you any pain, no matter how slight, just say so and we'll stop.'

He must have been busy with the lube as he spoke, because a second later a finger found its way somewhere Sherlock had never had a finger inserted before. He squirmed, finding the sensation a very pleasurable one.

'Oh, you like that do you?' John asked needlessly, crooking his finger and hitting something that made Sherlock start moaning and going rigid.

'What – what –' Sherlock managed.

'I'm a doctor, Sherlock,' John whispered in his ear. 'I know exactly how your body works, how to give you pleasure, where the erogenous zones are – all over the place, by the way.' He inserted a second finger, preparing Sherlock for what was to come, and then leaned over to stick a tongue in Sherlock's ear.

For some reason, the sensation of his ear being licked and teased drove Sherlock over the edge. He wanted to be fucked, hard.

Now.

'Now, now, John!' he pleaded, trying to flip himself over and get hold of John.

'Easy, love, don't rush it,' John said soothingly, withdrawing his fingers and allowing Sherlock to turn over. He leaned in and captured Sherlock's mouth with his own, prolonging the moment, the pleasure and the intimacy that was to come. Then without further ado, he rolled over, leaned over the edge of the bed, tugged out his suitcase, flipped open the lid and extracted a bottle of lube. He reflected briefly that there were advantages to being neat and tidy, such as not having to scrabble around looking for things. Like when Sherlock, whose possessions were scattered haphazardly all over the room, lost his handcuff key and they were chained together for an hour until they managed to pick the lock…

A gentle hand carding through his hair brought John back to the here and now. Without further ado he coated his fingers in lube and made sure Sherlock was thoroughly prepared before adding a little to his already weeping cock and getting down to business.

Mastering himself sternly, John entered Sherlock gently, a little at a time, watching him intently for any sign of pain or discomfort. But there was none, only Sherlock gazing up at him. Encouraged, John began to rock his hips slowly, and Sherlock responded, some inner music only they could hear giving them the rhythm.

John waited until he was sure Sherlock had grown accustomed to his length inside him before gave an extra firm thrust of his hips. He must have done something right, because Sherlock gasped and stiffed in his arms. Encouraged, John continued to pound into Sherlock, his movements becoming surer and stronger. He could feel Sherlock's erection hot and rigid against his stomach, and he grinned in pleasure as the sensations grew more intense.

'John – John – Jaaawn…' Sherlock moaned, and the sound nearly undid John. His movements became wilder and more frantic as he began to lose control, as Sherlock writhed beneath him.

'Sherlock – I can't – can't last much longer –' John managed to grind out.

'Then come for me, John, as hard as you can,' Sherlock whispered to him.

So John did, so violently it was almost painful as he shuddered through his orgasm. A moment later a long, low moan testified to Sherlock's climax, and John felt his muscles tightened around him and the warm splash of cum against his skin before Sherlock subsided. Then the energy left them both, and they lay sprawled on the bed, limbs tangled together, sweat dripping from them, and the only sound their gasping breaths and the water beneath their window lapping at the banks of the canals.

Then, unbidden, a memory surfaced in Sherlock's sex-addled mind. He thought of the words he had written in his letter to Mycroft, that dreadful night when he had first confronted Moriarty. Most of the coded letter had contained instructions about what to do should they ever get the chance to defeat his nemesis. Only at the end had he given into sentiment, uncaring about Mycroft's probable scorn and contempt.

He had written thus: if you ever loved me, brother, then take care of John. He is my heart's heart, my true love. And you know, brother, how I value truth.

'Soledad,' he said suddenly.

John stirred, sliding out of Sherlock reluctantly. 'Hmm?'

'That girl who died giving birth in the village. Her name was Soledad.'

John said nothing, but the hand he laid over Sherlock's heart was a most eloquent gesture.

The honeymoon ended the next day. A local magician sent a message to Sherlock via one of the pigeons from St Mark's Square.

'A curse, John!' Sherlock exclaimed, beaming. 'My first in nearly six years! It's a tricky one, too, three people turned into stone and a riddle! Oh, it's Christmas!'

'Let me get this straight, Sherlock,' John said dryly. 'You've been free of your curse for all of six weeks and the first thing you want to do is go and get tangled up in another?'

Sherlock looked at him in bemusement. 'Naturally.'

'It's our first holiday together!' John protested. Sherlock nodded.

'I know, I never thought we'd get so lucky,' he admitted.

'I've had enough of curses to last a lifetime,' John grumbled. 'Enough of curses, black magic, being taken prisoner, being kidnapped by trees…'

Sherlock raised a quizzical eyebrow. 'So… would you care to see a bit more?'

'Oh God yes.'

Sherlock and John will return in Spellbound, the sequel to By the Grace of Small and Simple Magicks.

Author's note: the line 'pin your heartbeat up against my heartbeat and we'll see how well we rhyme' is from Josh Ritter's song Bright Smile.

And that's all... for now. As I've always promised, till next time, dear readers!