A/N: Only one review for that last chapter? You guys are mean. Thank you, Sara, for your input. It was very much appreciated.

Here it is, the last chapter. Thank you guys for sticking with me (even if many of you refused to review) and I hope you're content with the ending. Happy reading, until the next time!

Also, I'm working on some original work that I'm trying to get published. If you like my fan fictions, you'll love my books. Feel free to follow me on Tumblr and send me a message, or just say hello. Just search for Bibliophilelove.

Chapter Ten

"We should probably clean up." John mumbled softly. He had pressed his mouth against the top of Sherlock's head and the dark hairs tickled his nose as he breathed in the smell of chemicals and shampoo and sweat. Sherlock didn't voice a coherent reply, choosing to let out a low hum from deep in his throat as he wrapped his arms around John more tightly.

The action surprised John, as his flatmate had never been one to enjoy or initiate any kind of physical comfort. His reluctance to move away made John smile, secretly pleased that he seemed to enjoy their embrace.

He felt strangely buoyant, high on the knowledge of what they had done. It was irrational, how only a few days ago he was content in the platonic relationship between Sherlock and himself, but now that they had taken it farther he couldn't imagine it evolving any other way. Had he always held such an unconscious attraction to his friend? Had he been deluding himself, all this time as he continued to tell everyone, and himself, that there was nothing between them?

He inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of Sherlock as they lay quietly. It occurred to him then as Sherlock's hands dug into his arm and side, to wonder how their act had affected his friend. It had been John's first time with another man, but it had been Sherlock's first time with anyone. It was a momentous occasion for him, and John wanted to ask how he was affected but the unsure words froze in his throat. He was suddenly afraid to break to the spell, to puncture the bubble of comfortable intimacy that had formed around them.

Sherlock seemed to sense his hesitation and lifted his head to study John's face, eyebrows raising up to his hairline in a silent question. John realized he was expected to speak.

"Ah, I was just, um. Wondering how you were feeling?" He finished lamely, mentally bashing his head against a figurative wall.

"Are inquiring after my mental state or physical well being?" Sherlock asked, a smirk on his lips.

"Both, I suppose." John answered, oddly comforted by his coyness.

"Physically, I am perfectly sound. Rather well stated, to be honest. I was unaware that intimacy and release stimulated by another person could be so gratifying. I'll want to repeat our little tryst on a regular basis and see if the current level of allure holds. As far as my… emotional state is concerned… I am experiencing a certain… discontent." He finished, his eyes softening as his gaze unfocused. John frowned, tensing up against the rebuff he was about to receive.

He couldn't claim to be ignorant about Sherlock's condition. He knew from the beginning that it was difficult for the self proclaimed sociopath, if not impossible, for him to form an emotional attachment to anyone. From the start this had merely been an arrangement to benefit him, to stop John from leaving so that Sherlock could stay focused. It was stupid for him to have expected anything more.

But wait, had he wanted more? Was this another, more dangerous, unconscious desire that he was only just realizing the existence of now? What exactly had he expected to come of this? It was obvious that there was sexual attraction between them, but what about -he felt his skin go cold at the thought- love?

Was Sherlock even capable of love? Looking at him now, with those sharp eyes watching his face with a fervor that suggested he could hear every thought, John wasn't sure. Maybe, perhaps, with time? There was no way to know for sure. Did John want to spend so much time on a person who might never reciprocate his feelings?

"John? Your skin just lost three shades of color and your heart is increasing it's rhythm. What are you thinking?" Sherlock asked, lifting himself up so that he was resting on his elbows, with one on each side of John's stomach. His thin, perfect face was so devastatingly beautiful, whis his sex mussed hair and his still pink lips. It made John's heart ache just to look at him.

"I was just wondering what this meant for us." He offered, deciding that honestly would be best. Better to get it out in the open so that they could discuss it now, rather than let it fester.

"How coincidental, as I was just thinking the same thing." Sherlock murmured, his eyes going far away again. John swallowed dryly before he spoke, summoning his courage.

"Look Sherlock, I understand that you suggested this with complete rationality. I know you only needed for my relationships to stop distracting you, I understand that. I even accepted it. But I think it's going to be hard for me to… continue to do this with you without… developing some feelings about it." He finished, feeling the warmth rush back into his face.

"Feelings?" Sherlock questioned, frowning.

"Yes Sherlock. Feelings." John replied, exasperated now. "Normal people can't just have sex with someone without growing… emotionally attached to that person. As much as I enjoyed what we just did, because really, it was bloody fantastic, I can't keep it up forever. I'm going to need to find someone who is willing to have a real relationship with me. Which requires more than a good shag." He said, wincing at the strange ache in his chest.

"John, I…" Sherlock began, paused, shook his head slightly as though ridding himself of an unpleasant thought, then began again. "It is no secret that I am out of my depth when it comes to understand the finer workings of sentiment. I have intentionally made this obvious, so as to ward off potential admirers, as I have no time for such things. I consider myself married to my work, as I told you the second day we met." John looked away from Sherlock's face as he spoke that last sentence, letting his gaze linger towards the ceiling as he struggled with his sudden hopelessness. Sherlock paused as he looked away and reached out, grasping John's chin in his hand and tugging his face back down, confusion and… could that be concern in his expression? "But I would be lying if I told you that this last week hasn't affected me."

John sucked in a breath, letting the fragile hope swell in his chest as he waited for Sherlock to continue.

"I find myself thinking about you John, nearly every second of the day and night. I have always prided myself on my ability to function alone, without the weight of another consciousness to impede my life. But you, John, are the exception. Even when my mind is preoccupied with other things, of cases and bodies and the cultures in the fridge, I am thinking of you. There is an entire wing in my mind palace, dedicated to you. The thought of you leaving this flat without me is distasteful and I can't accept you being with anyone else. I could not imagine going back to the life I knew before you walked into that lab at Barts. I can quite honestly admit that if I were ever to love someone, it would be you, John Watson. And I ask that you give me time, time to adjust to the strength of these strange… emotions. I will not change immediately, but I promise you that if you give me time and patience, that I will try." By the time he finished, John's heart was pounding out of control. He couldn't find the words, they had gotten lost somewhere on the way from his brain to his mouth.

Was he being serious? Of course he was, Sherlock wouldn't joke about something of this nature. John stared at him, trying to form a decent response. Sherlock still lay there, propped up on one elbow as held John's face firmly in place. Was it his imagination, or had his heart swelled to twice it's normal size? He couldn't believe his own ears, surely he had fallen asleep and he was dreaming. For all he could have hoped for, realistically, this could not have been a better result. Sherlock had offered the one thing that would have made John happy; time and the chance for something more.

Millions of stupidly emotional responses ran through his mind, and quite a few snarky ones, but the only thing he could force out of his mouth was;

"You're a bloody idiot, do you know that?" He asked, feeling his mouth tilt up at the corners.

"Does that mean you'll consider my offer?" Sherlock inquired, tilting his head to the side. John let out a bark of delirious laughter.

"Yes, you moron."

The kettle had just started whistling when John caught the movement in his peripheral vision. Sherlock strode into the kitchen, freshly showered and dressed, with his haughty 'I own the world' expression. He had dressed in his usual black trousers and that dark blue silk shirt that John thought made his skin look radiant. His hair was still damp and artfully tousled, his shoes were silent on the hardwood floor.

"Sit, allow me." He ordered, taking the kettle from John's hand. John raised an eyebrow but smartly did not argue. Sherlock never made tea.

"I'll stand thank you. Bum is still sore." He added sheepishly, feeling his face turn pink.

"Is it? After tea I can massage some of your sore areas, if you like." Sherlock offered, his voice low and suggestive. John stared at him, amazed. Who knew Sherlock Holmes could be so… seductive.

"Thanks, but I don't think I can repeat the experience so soon, no matter how pleasing it was. I should take it easy, at least for the remainder of the day." He said, watching Sherlock's profile closely as he made their tea.

"I was not being indelicate John. I merely wanted to help ease your discomfort. It is amazing, the tensions that can be relieved through a deep tissue massage in your upper thighs or lower back. But if you say so, doctor Watson. Far be it from me to argue." He smirked, handing John his cup. John swallowed, imagining those long fingered hands rubbing into his sore muscles.

"Well maybe I could benefit from-" But his words were cut off as Sherlocks mobile began to ring from his pocket. He watched as he pulled it out and glanced sharply at the screen.

"A raincheck, John…" He murmured before he brought the phone to ear and walked out of the kitchen.

John sipped at his still too hot tea while John listened to whoever was speaking to him. He smiled as he realized that Sherlock knew how he liked his tea. Not that it should have been surprising after all, it was Sherlock he was talking about.

"John!" Sherlock called from the sitting room. Teacup in hand, John padded into the next room, wincing at the soreness in his arse.

"Go shower and dress, quickly!" Sherlock ordered, slipping his phone back into his trouser pocket.

"Where are we going?" John inquired.

"Scotland yard. They caught him."

John was pleasantly surprised to find that their public relationship didn't seem to be affected much. Sherlock treated him the same around other people, minus the occasional lingering gaze. When they arrived at the police station Lestrade met them outside the interrogation rooms, an expression of cautious triumph lingering over his features.

"Picked up him up about an hour ago after he attempted to attack a guy taking out his trash in an alley over on West. We were able to stop him before he got any drugs into the guy. He had a bag with him, this was in it, along with a few other tools." John watched as the Detective Inspector handed over a clear evidence bag, holding a thin strip of pale purple silk. The same color as John's shirt, the one Sherlock had worn to the coffee shop only hours ago.

"I will speak to him. Can you give me one hundred and twenty seconds?" Sherlock asked looking up from the bag in his hand. John couldn't help but bask in his commanding presence, smothering the smile that threatened his lips.

"Yeah. Be quick. I'd like to wrap this up." He said, nodding to the door that held their prisoner. Sherlock kept the bag in his fist as he swept through the door silently, letting it click shut behind him.

John followed Lestrade around the corner and to the window so they could observe what was happening in the room. Sherlock stood on the opposite side of the table, not bothering to sit and using his height to his advantage. The young man, Trevor, only stared at him openly, a barrage of emotions running across his face. Attraction, admiration, reverence, anger, fear. He didn't look away until Sherlock dropped the bag on the table between them.

He winced as he caught sight of the evidence.

"Why did you kill those people Trevor?" Sherlock asked, his voice deceptively quiet. Trevor looked back up at him, pain and need in his eyes.

"I did it for you… to give you something… I thought you might find me…" Trevor whispered. John was surprised by the quality of his voice, even through the small speaker. It was an attractive voice, light, the male alto to Sherlock's baritone.

"I don't need people to kill for me. If i wanted to play with dead bodies, I daresay I could wrap them up much more efficiently and without all the drama." He said, his voice cold. Trevor flinched. "In the end you were just like the rest of them."

The younger man looked up, his handsome face imploring.

"What do you mean?" He pleaded, nearly close to tears. John found himself feeling sorry for him. Sherlock obviously did not have the same reservations.

"Boring." He answered, leaving the bag on the table and table and turning to the door. He paused with his hand on the door handle, his back to Trevor but his face easily visible through window. There was a thought there, flickering across his expression. John could have stared for a million years, and never have been able to decipher that look.

"It wasn't even my shirt." He whispered. John frowned and looked to Trevor, who looked just as confused as he felt.

"What do you…" And as though mirroring him, realization dawned on him just as John figured it out. Not Sherlock's shirt. John's shirt. John, the plain, unassuming man that Sherlock had his arm around in the coffee shop. Trevor's face twisted into a bitter expression of pain just before Sherlock removed himself from the room, leaving the young man alone.

"What was that about?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock stepped out.

"Nothing. Our work is done here. We'll be in touch." He responded, nodded to the Detective before walking swiftly away.

"Greg." John nodded, more politely than his friend, and then strode after him. John caught up to him as he reached the steps down to the street. He studied Sherlocks face as he hailed a cab, going over the interview in his mind. And then he turned to look down at John.

The stark difference between the coldness in his eyes as he looked down at Trevor and the shining warmth in them now was incredible. Sherlock may consider himself to be without sentiment, and John may have even believed him for a while, but there was proof there, in that expression, that they had both been wrong. Sherlock did feel, even if he didn't realize it. John smiled, maybe there was hope for them after all.

"What are you thinking?" Sherlock suddenly asked, eyes narrowing on John's face. John grinned wider, shaking his head.

"You're brilliant. You know that?" Sherlock smirked at his words, looking back to the street so John could study his perfect profile.

"So I've been told."

Yes, maybe there was hope after all.

The end.