A/N: This is the last chapter. It's a lot longer than the previous chapters, so I hope the ending will be satisfactory. Thank you so much for all those who read this story. I really appreciate it.

CHAPTER THREE

John woke with a start, drenched in sweat and the sheets tangled in his legs. His chest heaved with each breath he took and his palms dug in his eyelids in an attempt to forget the images of Sherlock jumping from the roof. Sherlock landing on the pavement. Sherlock covered in blood. John being powerless to save him. He struggled to stop his mind from racing. They came in all at once, pounding at his head until he clutched his hair and tugged. Please, make it stop. Sherlock is alive. This isn't real.

A part of him still insisted that his heartfelt conversation with Sherlock had all been a distant dream. That he was still dead. That John was still alone. His heart raced and his breathing came out in short gasps. Sherlock is alive. Sherlock is alive. He kept repeating to himself, but it did little to the sequence of images assaulting his brain.

It was 1:04 in the morning. John got up hastily and walked downstairs to the living room, his mind still reeling. The sound of a violin made him pause in his tracks and sigh in relief. He's there. He's right there. Everything's fine. I'm not crazy.

The violin stopped. Sherlock turned to face John, his lanky profile unmistakable even in the poorly lit room. John wanted to run over to him, hold him and never let go. Instead, he cleared his throat and stood up straight. "I couldn't sleep."

"You were having nightmares."

"Sherlock, I have a favour to ask you." John said softly, willing himself to say the rest of his speech. "It might seem weird, and you're welcome to say no—"

"What is it?"

"CanIsleepinyourroomtonight?" John shut his eyes through his garbled speech.

"John, what?"

"Can I sleep in your room tonight?" John repeated, slower this time. "I mean, when—when you were… gone, whenever I had trouble sleeping, I'd always sleep in your room. Your—your scent…" John cringed at how creepy he sounded. "It—it helps me. Somehow. I don't know. This is really weird, forget I even asked." He prepared himself for Sherlock's rejection. Surely this was an act that went beyond the parameters of normal friendship.

"Okay."

"What?"

"You know I loathe repeating myself."

"Oh." He cleared his throat again. "Alright. Uh—thanks."

Sherlock turned his back to John and played the violin once more.

He stepped inside of Sherlock's room, noting immediately how much it had changed since its owner returned. It was messier, though the layer of dust that once settled upon every item in the room had vanished. Case files were scattered left and right and different notes in Sherlock's elegant script littered the desk in the corner of the room. Most important to John, though, was the scent. The scent that had always comforted him to sleep during the loneliest of nights. The scent that had begun to fade away the last time John entered the room, but had come back full force when his flatmate came back from the dead. It was the distinct scent of Sherlock that he always felt like drowning himself in. He walked over to the bed and crept under the covers, sighing.

Despite the fact that he had calmed down immensely, his brain still refused to let him sleep. The images had stopped, though, and that was a relief.

He laid down there for what felt like hours (but in reality could only have been a few minutes), staring up at the ceiling and counting his breaths. The seconds ticking from the clock on the wall. He closed his eyes and focused on the sound of his own pulsating heart. Slowly, his muscles relaxed and he felt himself drifting off towards slumber.

He heard the door open and close. Footsteps coming towards him. The dip in the other side of the bed. Someone crawling under the sheets beside him. A voice: "I know you're not asleep, John."

He was foolish to think he could trick the man. John opened his eyes to look at Sherlock, lying flat on his back with his hands resting palms down on his chest. John turned to face him.

"Tell me about what you did." John said. "When you were supposedly dead. What sort of crazy adventures did you get yourself in?"

Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "John, I'm not sure if I should—"

"It's alright. I can take it. You're safe now, so it doesn't matter."

But Sherlock did not answer. In fact, neither of them spoke for the next ten minutes. John thought he was never going to reply, until Sherlock suddenly spoke. "Ken Travish."

"What?"

"Ken Travish. That was the name of the first of Moriarty's men I had to hunt down."

And the pair stayed awake for the next few hours, Sherlock going into detail about every single man he went after before fully dismantling Moriarty's web. John listened eagerly, laughing along to some of Sherlock's ridiculous tactics. More than once did he think that Sherlock could not have survived and John would have spent the rest of his life thinking that he was dead. He shuddered at the thought. He's alive, you git. How many times does it have to be repeated for you?

In spite of his thoughts, John couldn't resist reaching over to rest his fingertips on Sherlock's neck, where his pulse should be. Sherlock abruptly stopped talking.

"I-I'm sorry. I know you're here, but… I just have to be sure." John let out a shuddering breath and began to retract his hand. Sherlock swiftly grabbed it, holding it back to his chest.

"You can see me. You can touch me. You can converse with me. Is that still inconclusive evidence of my existence?"

He turned on his side. They were facing each other now, joined hands in between their warm bodies. John rejoiced at the sight before him. The vivid colour displayed in each eye. The tiny speck just above his left eyebrow. The lines on his forehead and the dip of a philtrum above his Cupid's bow lips. He could count every single eyelash if he wanted to. John was drawn into the consulting detective, felt himself shift closer until their knees bumped and their noses pressed together.

"No—I… I always see you. Everywhere. And I can converse with you too." John closed his eyes. "Then I realise you're not real, that I'm all alone. That I've gone mad…"

Sherlock looked at him, eyes soft, softer than John had ever seen them.

"So even now that you're right in front of me," he continued. "I'm just waiting for you to leave me again."

Sherlock gripped his hand and guided it to his beating heart. "I'm here. I'm not leaving you. I promise."

John felt his heart clench. A tingling sensation erupted in his stomach. He nodded, bumping their foreheads. He was shaking. "Please. Please don't."

"I won't." Sherlock framed John's trembling face in his hands. "Not after what I just went through. Never again, John Watson."

The older man nodded, entranced by the detective's heated gaze. "Okay," he said to reassure himself. "Okay."

His mind launched into an endless chanting to prevent himself from slipping away. He was on the thin line between reality and hallucinatory, unable to determine for sure which elements belonged to what. But Sherlock had just asked him to believe in him, and he knew he had to ground himself for the sake of the man he would do pretty much anything for. Sherlock is real. He's not leaving me. Sherlock is real…

Sherlock brushed his lips ever so slightly against John's.

He felt fire. Fire inside his body, emanating from the spot that Sherlock's lips had touched. A soft whimper broke out of him. He clutched Sherlock's chest like a lifeline, pulling him impossibly close.

For the first time in three years, John felt secure. There in the darkness of Sherlock's room with only a sliver of moonlight to illuminate their faces. He was warm, but not uncomfortably so. He felt like floating, but at the same time grounded by the long fingers that cradled his hand so gently, as if John's hand was the most precious thing it ever beheld.

"I trust you. With my life." He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, his face buried in the dark curls. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his waist and tangled their legs together under the sheets. John smiled, the scent that he longed for so long now overpowering his senses. He brushed his fingers gently on the mop of hair, following the looping trails of each strand. He felt Sherlock release a comforting sigh as John allowed his eyes to close and finally succumbed to sleep.

There were no bad dreams for either of them that night.

When John woke up, the room suddenly felt a lot colder. Sunlight beamed fully from the windows and made him squint his eyes as he sat up. He looked to his side. He was all alone.

Panic started to creep in. Sherlock was gone. He remembered falling asleep next to him, but now he was gone. That could only mean two things: either he simply hallucinated Sherlock's return once again, or Sherlock really had been there that night, but left in disgust when he realised what had taken place. A cold, dreadful feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. He did not know which option he liked better.

Footsteps heavy, he made his way slowly into the living room, unsure of what to expect. Despite himself, a sigh of relief went out of him when he saw Sherlock, clad in a purple button up shirt, performing experiments on the dining table. He was wearing a pair of safety goggles, his right hand holding up a beaker containing a murky solution into the sunlight while his left hand took down notes in his elegant script. He did not look up when John entered the room, merely stopped writing for a split-second before resuming once again.

John's mind was reassured, but the dreadful feeling in his stomach did not leave him. Were they back to this, then? Did last night not mean anything after all? He walked towards the kitchen to start making breakfast. In his mind, John knew that he was being selfish. Sherlock had told him all those years ago that the Work always came first. John witnessed countless of times the lengths he would go through just to receive a somewhat satisfactory result of his deductions. Sherlock was a brilliant powerhouse matrix of analyses, experiments, and data on strings from cause to effect that he exercised with regularity, and John had been foolish to think that one night of petty cuddling would change all that.

He let out a derisive laugh. Who was he to think that he could make such an impact on the great Sherlock Holmes? He was a former army doctor who got shot and invalided out of Afghanistan. His leg acted up in times of distress. He was not a genius like Sherlock. Now, as a doctor of medicine, John reckoned he was a relatively smart man. But to Sherlock, he must seem so small. Ordinary. Easily replaced.

His hands trembled at the thought and the plate he had been holding crashed to the ground. Sherlock, who had left his experiment on the dining table in favour of reading a book on the couch, looked up from his spot in the living room. "Is everything alright in there?"

"I'm fine." John lied through his teeth. Sherlock made a brief humming sound in response and went back to his book.

John ate breakfast alone. A daunting silence settled over the flat while he took bites of his jam and toast and Sherlock sat still on the sofa, too engrossed in his book. When John was done, he cleaned up and sat down next to Sherlock. He glanced at the cover of the book his flatmate had been reading so thoroughly. The Backyard Beekeeper: An Absolute Beginner's Guide to Keeping Bees in Your Yard and Garden.

Sherlock's face was blank, his brows slightly furrowed in concentration. John noticed that his clothes looked much bigger on him and he wanted to punch himself for not realising sooner how much weight Sherlock had lost during his disappearance. The dark circles under his eyes were tremendous, and his whole demeanour had changed since his return. He was no longer the agile, feline-like man that bounced around the flat on several pieces of furniture. Instead, his back was straightened, feet planted firmly on the ground, poised to strike at any given notice. As if he were expecting danger to come at any time and he needed to prepare himself for it, because the slightest deviation from his awareness can and will cost him his life.

Still, there was a distinct serenity to his expression, a sort of calmness that John delighted in looking at. This was the look he had on when he needed to concentrate greatly on something. The focus that entailed the extreme importance of its subject, which was odd considering that he was reading a book about backyard beekeeping and last time he checked, they didn't even have a backyard. John wanted nothing more than to be the subject of that focus, to feel for once the actual degree of his significance to the consulting detective.

The desire to reach out to him was so strong that it formed a dull ache inside his chest. His obsession with the man was getting out of hand. He can feel a monster clawing at his stomach, hungry and satiable only by Sherlock looking at him. Sherlock touching him. Sherlock overpowering his senses until he forgot his own name. He did not know what he was feeling, because it was the first time he ever felt this way about anyone. He daresay he'd fallen in love many times before, but none of them ever filled him with such a desperate need as this.

Sherlock had been holding up his book with one hand, elbow propped on the armrest while his other hand rested on the space between them. John wondered how he would react if he were to suddenly enclose that pale hand in both his own. If he were to tug on it and pull him close. If it would surprise him so much he'd finally drop that god damn book, and crush their lips together to establish the connection he'd been longing for since the day they'd met. Then, and only then, will he feel safe.

He realised that he'd been staring at Sherlock for a few minutes now, the silence in the flat still overwhelming. It was a surprise that the dark-haired man hadn't noticed. Anger filled him once again. Why won't he notice him?

The monster in him growled, and this time he decided to give into it. Quietly, he let his hand rest on top of Sherlock's in between them. It was only a fleeting touch, but it sent sparks up his arm and down his spine. They sat like that, his palm resting on the back of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock did not give even the slightest indication of response, and it infuriated him even further.

The ache in his chest intensified, and it startled him so that he instinctively tucked his thumb under Sherlock's palm and gripped tightly. He closed his eyes, hoped that the aching would go away.

The hand beneath his turned up and slotted their fingers together. A steady pressure enclosed John's hand and a thumb placed featherlight strokes on his knuckles. John looked at the man next to him in surprise. The book had fallen onto Sherlock's lap, and his expression was one that John could only recognise as concern. His face was hard, his eyes boring into John's. Looking deeply into them, John also saw a hint of anger. Sherlock was angry at him, but he had no idea why.

"Sherlock, I—" he said weakly.

"Yes, what is it?" He answered, his voice devoid of any emotion.

"I-I want…" He couldn't bring himself to say the rest of the sentence.

"John. What do you want?" Despite his cold gaze, his thumb still kept the gentle strokes on John's hand. "Tell me."

"I want your focus on me," he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, "Always."

Sherlock drew back his hand and leaned back in his seat. He steepled his hands under his chin, a thoughtful expression on his features. He gave a small smile. Perplexed, John said nothing.

"You still don't get it, do you?" he said, his voice almost menacingly deep. "All those years of living with me and you never knew. You have always been in my thoughts, John—every second of every minute of every day. I've long since given up on trying to dedicate a room to you in my mind palace. Instead, you're everywhere—tacked on the brick walls, scattered all over the floor. I let you permeate my senses because I was powerless to stop it. Decades of conditioning my mind to ease and release data at will did not prepare me for you. Usually it is manageable, but it's becoming quite bothersome as of late." He gave a derisive laugh.

John was sure he'd stopped breathing during Sherlock's speech. He stared at him, mouth slightly agape, still perplexed. He felt himself drift closer to him, their shoulders touching, faces only inches apart. He could see himself reflected in Sherlock's eyes. "What does that mean, exactly?"

There was a flicker of emotion in his face, but it lasted only a split second before he got back to his cold demeanour. "Mycroft told me you tried to kill yourself."

Oh.

So that's why he was mad.

"That was a long time ago," he answered with as much strength as he could muster.

"That doesn't change anything."

"I was alone and desperate. And I'm not anymore."

"How can you be so sure?"

John shot him a pleading look. He needed Sherlock to understand that now that he was back, John didn't need to put himself in harm's way just to get a fleeting look at Sherlock's face anymore. He needed Sherlock to understand that he saved him, begged him to see it his way because he was afraid that Sherlock would leave him again for good.

John wanted to tell him so many things, but the best he could come up with was "You're back now. I left my insanity behind."

Sherlock grabbed his wrist harshly and held it against the back of the sofa. John's breath caught in his throat. His face had leaned closer, his expression livid. "I could have lost you. If Mycroft hadn't come on time to stop you. I would have come home to an empty flat. All of it would have been for nothing." His voice cracked in the last word, and John felt his heart break a little. Sherlock's grip on his wrist did not loosen, and he felt his fingers go cold and numb.

"You are not to do that again." Sherlock continued. "What you did was stupid and dangerous and I can't believe you were daft enough to even consider it!" His other hand went up to grip John's shoulder, his fingers digging into the soft material of John's shirt. He saw so much pain and anger in Sherlock's eyes. John wanted to cower away in fear, but he stood his ground.

"Wait—don't I get a say in this?" said John, an edge of anger in his voice. "I watched you die, Sherlock. You forced me to look at you, and I didn't think you would do it, but you did. You jumped. Do you have any idea how it feels to mull over the suicide of the most brilliant man you've ever known, thinking that it was your fault?" The grip on his shoulder and wrist loosened. Realisation dawned on Sherlock's features. "I blamed myself, Sherlock. I spent years thinking where I went wrong, and was I not good enough of a friend for you that you had to go and kill yourself." John inhaled deeply, his voice dropped low. "So don't you dare lecture me about this! You have no right."

John was prepared to say more, but just when he was catching his breath, Sherlock grabbed his face and crushed his mouth to John's. John inhaled sharply, his eyes springing open. Sherlock's lips moved against him desperately, coaxing his lips open and shoving his tongue in John's mouth. He did not know how to react. He willed time to slow down, to let him gather his thoughts for a bit. He placed a hand on Sherlock's cheek while the other rested on his collarbone as he responded to the kiss. He licked his way into Sherlock's mouth, gliding effortlessly over the row of perfectly aligned teeth before brushing with his tongue. Sherlock moaned, the sound reverberating into the column of John's throat. It drove him insane.

Grabbing the taller man's shirt collar, John leaned in and straddled his hips. The book on bees fell to the floor with a satisfying thud. John smiled victoriously against his lips, sliding his hands to the back of Sherlock's head and tugging on the soft curls. Sherlock had one hand on his waist and the other on his neck, his thumb stroking at the erogenous zones of his ear. John closed his eyes, basking in the feeling of Sherlock's full attention on him. It filled him with an almost euphoric sense of fulfilment that he had never felt before. Finally, he was able to feel him. To be assured that he was not, in fact, crazy. Sherlock moved to place featherlight kisses on his neck. John lifted his chin, exposing more of his skin for Sherlock to explore.

John ground down on his thighs, snapping their hips together. A loud moan was elicited from the consulting detective's lips. He thrust his back up to John with more accuracy, and this time they both moaned from the burst of pleasure at the contact. John's heart was pounding inside his chest, his breathing came out in short gasps. Sherlock's hands settled on his hips, fingers splayed over the backs of his thighs in a way that seemed to John so dirty. They kept thrusting, establishing a rhythm. Open mouths reconnected. Sparks of pleasure shot up John's spine as he unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt.

John wanted to cry. He had been so alone. He was close to ending his own life. So close to having missed this opportunity to be with Sherlock. But he was here, sprawled on top of him, ravishing him. Rolling his hips against him with fervour. Grinding down his arse on the bulge forming in Sherlock's trousers. John moaned deeply, his head falling back at the sensations coursing through him. He leaned in, his hands sliding down Sherlock's bare torso. He kissed him slowly, encasing Sherlock's lower lip with both of his. "Sherlock, thank you." He found himself saying in between breathless gasps of pleasure. "I owe you so much."

John clutched Sherlock's hair and pressed him close in an almost suffocating hug. Sherlock's hands slid up his arse and dug into his back. He leaned back up to recapture John's mouth in his. The kiss was gentle and deep, taking its time to explore, yet contained all the emotions the two could not convey in words. The longing. The years of separation. The desire. A whimper went out of Sherlock's throat as he drew back and stared longingly into John's eyes. "Marry me."

John froze, feeling the words cut into his skin. It wasn't even a question, but more of a demand. A warm feeling grew inside of him as he brushed some curls away from Sherlock's forehead, looking fondly at him through half-hooded eyes. Sherlock's expression was so raw that it made his head spin. He found himself nodding eagerly, placing a chaste kiss on his swollen lips.

And that was when he realised that perhaps he hadn't left his insanity behind after all. Because a marriage with Sherlock meant more heads in the fridge. It meant more bullet holes in the walls and quite possibly some company to that skull on the mantelpiece. It meant more dangerous nights of chasing criminals down the streets of London. More experiments gone awry that would force him to leave the flat for days. It meant more fighting and yelling over the most mundane things. It meant more times where Sherlock would be quiet for days, littered by sporadic outbursts in between and John would have to deal with it all.

But a marriage with Sherlock also meant more adventurous chills and thrills. It meant no more lonely nights of crying himself to sleep. It meant he'd have someone to care for, to make sure he slept and ate with regularity. It meant that they would never have to spend another day apart. He could breathe. He could live peacefully. He could be the happiest man alive with no repercussions at all.

So what if he kept his little insanity, if it made him happy and did no harm to anyone? John was content. He was floating. And he was a fool if he said he wanted this little insanity to end.