AN: Good morning everyone!

Here we finally are to our last chapter. As I've already remarked, it makes me feel a little sad. But (there's always a 'but', isn't there?) I've already written another fanfiction, that I will publish soon (and I'm actually planning another one) so it isn't really an 'adieu', but a 'see you soon'. Nevertheless, I thank you all for your support throughout all this. A special thanks to all those who have read/commented/liked/favourited this, because I love you all, sincerely!

Thank thank thank you!

One last time on this (It's been a while since I last said that): all the rights to BBC, all the fun to me!

John woke up at eight a.m.. At first he couldn't understand where he was. He realised he was in a bed, but he couldn't manage to remember what bed. He should've been in Lestrade's house, in the room the policeman had given him. But it didn't look like it. Instead it was very similar to a room he hadn't seen in a very long time.

"Oh, fuck."

The realisation struck him all of a sudden. That was Sherlock's bedroom. All the images of the previous night packed his mind. Him and Sherlock kissing. Him and Sherlock naked, pinned against the wall. Him and Sherlock on the floor. He realised he had probably fallen asleep at some point. Then how did he arrive to the bed? He was absolutely sure that he hadn't woken up during the night. Did Sherlock carry him there? Probably yes, was his mental answer.

But where was Sherlock now? In the bedroom there was no sign of him nor there was any sign that the detective had slept with him. John sat on the bed scratching his forehead and trying to understand if there was any noise coming from the other part of the flat. No noises.

"Sherlock?", he called tentatively.

He waited for an answer for some time before standing up and moving to the bathroom. Maybe he had gone out for a reason, he told himself. Nevertheless he felt the same old lump in his throat growing one more time. He looked at his face in the mirror. On his neck there was a red hickey that seemed to scream 'propriety of Sherlock Holmes'. He took a deep breath and opened the water of the shower. He didn't wait for it to heat up and directly put himself under the cold stream. He had had sex with Sherlock Holmes. Fuck. It had been amazing. Fuck, again. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen at the moment. Fuck, for a third time.

"Fuck!", he yelled in frustration, hitting the glass of the shower stall with his fist.

He stayed under the cold water until he felt his whole body shivering. He was well awake now and his mind felt a bit clearer. He took a towel, dried himself a bit and went to the living room. On the floor lay the relics of the night. His shirt was lying near the wall, three of its buttons a bit further. His shoes, trousers and pants lay near it. No sign of Sherlock's clothes either. Fuck, one more time. He tried to persuade himself there was nothing wrong with it, he tried to convince himself that Sherlock had just gone out for a while. And at the same time he was absolutely sure that the other man had left the flat, had left him one more time. Fuck.

Now he really wanted to punch him in the face, despite everything that had happened between them. He moved to the kitchen, angry enough to feel his whole body shivering, his knuckles gone completely white. On the kitchen table there was a paper note. Sherlock's refined, graceful writing on it.

To John.

A note. Like the one Sherlock had left him on the phone one year before. He threw it on the floor, deeply desiring to destroy it. But he picked it up seconds later.

Dear John,

By the time you'll wake up and read this note, I'll be gone.

I'm sorry for what happened tonight. I have certainly pushed you into doing that. I think you're already regretting what has happened and I blame myself for having put you through something like this. Again. It seems that I'm really of no good use when it comes to you. I should've comforted you, apologised to you, listened to what you were saying. Instead I emotionally manipulated you one more time. All I am able to do is just making you suffer more and more.

I wanted to spare us the awkward morning conversation in which you were going to say that you're very sorry and that it had been an error, that you like me as a friend and that all that happened was probably just a moment of confusion caused by the confessions I made to you. See how manipulative I am? I didn't mean to be, but it turned out I'm a bastard even when I try to not be one.

I'm going back to destroying Moriarty's web. It'll be a long, hard work, but I hope I'll eventually succeed, so that the world will be definitely free from that criminal.

I may come back sooner or later, and yet I may not come back.

I wish you all the best for your future life, John. Don't worry for me. You have seen it. You just get hurt by standing by my side. You deserve happiness not a manipulative bastard like me.

Just remember that to me it wasn't an error and that I'll redo it over and over again.

Sherlock.

He couldn't believe his eyes. He couldn't believe what he just had read at all.

Oh god, that man was impossibly thick. What part of "I thought my life without you wasn't a life worth living" did he miss? What part of "I love you" didn't he understand? He wanted to strangle him, punch him, then snog him senseless until he understood what those three words meant for him. Not necessarly in that order.

The thought that he was going somewhere dangerous from where he might have not come back struck him seconds later. He felt hollow and useless all of a sudden again. Why had he always to leave him back? God, he so wanted to strangle him. And kiss him. At the same time.

But this time he knew Sherlock was alive and he found that he had not the slightest intention to sit on the chair waiting for Sherlock to come back or to be…killed. Hadn't he been a soldier in Afghanistan? Hadn't he faced death? He could help Sherlock in his work. He could be useful. He stood up, before realising that he had absolutely no idea of where Sherlock was directed to.

He walked to and fro the living room for a while, not caring of the cold air hitting his naked skin. He ruminated not once, not twice but a hundred times. He thought about everything. Who could know where Sherlock was aimed to? You see, you just don't observe, Sherlock's voice in his head. What was he missing? Because he was certainly missing something.

Then different images started to gather in his head: an empty place on a bench, the day of Sherlock's function. No sign of him at the hospital either. No sign of him anywhere.

"Mycroft!", he shouted out loud at the sudden realisation.

Obviously Mycroft knew. How could he possibly have been so blind? He jumped towards his trousers, picked them up from the floor with his pants and put them on. Then ran upstairs, found a shirt and a jumper and bolted off, meeting a very astonished Mrs. Hudson at the front door.

"John! What are you doing there? Was that you making all those noises last night? Is that all ok?"

John grinned, turning to her.

"Never been better in my whole life, Mrs. Hudson. I'm sorry but I've got to dash. We may not see for a while!"

"Wha-why?"

"Because, Mrs. Hudson, once again…the game is on!"

He closed the door behind him and hailed a taxi.

"To the Diogenes Club."

The taxi reached the destination in no time. He entered the club, completely careless of the silence rule. He entered Mycroft's office slamming the door. All the members' eyes fixed on him. He couldn't care less.

Mycroft blinked at him over the newspaper he was reading.

"Where is he?", asked John.

"He…who?", replied innocently Mycroft.

"No need of your little games, Mycroft. You know who."

"I assure you that I have no…"

"TELL ME WHERE HE IS NOW!"

"And I ask again: who?"

John couldn't stand it anymore. He leaned forward to him, tore his newspaper off and pulled him by his tie until their faces met.

"Sherlock Holmes.", John hissed in a whisper. "Don't lie. Don't pretend you don't know where he is. Don't even t-r-y."

"He has left this morning to Vietnam.", Mycroft eventually said.

"Good. Good.", replied John still face to face with Sherlock's brother. "Now…bring me there."

"Wha…? I can't."

"Oh yes. You can. You can. And you will.", grinned John "Or I'll find a way to destroy you. And, believe me, never underestimate what I'm capable of doing. Especially right now."

They stood still for seconds that looked like an eternity.

"John, I just…can't."

"Maybe you didn't hear me. I'll say it one more time: YOU CAN AND YOU WILL!"

And then landed a punch right on Mycroft's nose to underline the idea.

Seconds later a car was waiting outside for him. It drove him home, where he gathered some clothes, put it in a bag faster than he could've ever believed he was able to, and then they aimed for an abandoned airport just outside London. It was past midday when he arrived there. Mycroft was waiting for him on the landing field. John couldn't help but being amused at the huge white plaster he had around his nose.

"The airplane is due to land here in one hour, doctor Watson."

John nodded.

"I can't guarantee your or Sherlock's safety, you know.", stated Mycroft.

"I've never been safe in my whole life. I guess I'll survive this too."

"Sherlock wouldn't want you to risk your life…"

"I'm sure I'm quite grown up to understand the danger."

The other man nodded and turned to his car, swirling his umbrella. The wind was blowing strong, but to John it seemed that Mycroft wished him good luck as he entered the car and left. John smiled.

One day later he was in a very humid part of the rainforest in Vietnam. It was raining so hard that he had found it difficult even to walk. A man was driving him to Sherlock's bungalow. He didn't speak a single word of English and John was quite grateful for that, because he didn't want to embark in useless conversations as he was focused on Sherlock only.

The driver left him in front of a path. John followed it and finally reached the bungalow. A man was sitting on a chair, dressed in a green military suit. He was soaking wet and seemed to sleep. But John could recognise him among millions. Sherlock raised his head in that precise moment and looked at the man who was coming from the road. He hadn't time to say anything.

"You're an idiot!", yelled John.

"John?"

John giggled at the astonished expression on his friend's face.

"How? Why are you…here?"

"What part of "I love you" you didn't understand? Because I thought I had been rather obvious."

Sherlock stared at him puzzled.

"So…is it the 'I'? That's a personal pronoun. Subject personal pronoun. It means: me, John. Or is it the 'love'? That's a regular English verb. It means: a deep and passionate affection for someone. Or maybe it's the 'you' that confused your brilliant mind. That's a personal pronoun too. Object personal pronoun. It means: you, Sherlock. So…is it better for you if I say: John loves Sherlock? Is it clearer this way?", John smirked.

Sherlock's jaw dropped open.

"See? You're an idiot.", replied John.

"I thought…I didn't think…"

"You think too much, sometimes…"

John said, approaching to Sherlock and poking his forehead with the index.

"This brilliant mind of yours…is there a way to shut it up?"

Sherlock smiled and kissed John under the pouring tropical rain.

"I think this might work, John.", he smirked. "To shut me up, I mean."

Then he returned serious.

"You shouldn't have come here. It's dangerous. You could…"

"You could too. I've been at war if you remember. I guess I'll survive. Plus you can't just…"

And John slightly pulled his collar to expose the hickey.

"…mark me as yours and leave me home."

Sherlock's cheeks flushed crimson. John smiled.

"Well," Sherlock cleared his throat, swallowing hard "…it's nevertheless dangerous for you to be here…you shouldn't…"

"If you put it that way…"

John noticed that Sherlock held his breath. The detective had obviously thought that he was going to leave.

"…I think that you should ask me again why I am here."

Sherlock gawked incredulous.

"Ahem… why are you here?"

"Because you're an idiot. And I'm an idiot too. An idiot in love with you."

And John kissed Sherlock under the rain one more time, feeling the other man's smile on his lips.

In that exact moment the rain stopped falling and the wind revealed the sun behind the clouds. Both of them stared up, admiring the blue spots of the sky.

Sherlock laughed.

"Oh John, I once told you thatas a conductor of light you are unbeatable, but John, look!" and he pointed at the sun "You really are the light in the storm!"

And they kept staring at the sky, holding hands, happier than ever.

Because they really were each other's light in the storm.

AN pt.2: and this is the END, my friends.

I hope you liked it!

The song that gives the title to this chapter is "Ljós í stormi" (translated as "The light in the storm") by the amazing Icelandic band Solstafir. Their most renowned song is Fjara, which I highly recommend for the video too.

THE REAL END.