A/note: Ask and you shall receive. Many of you felt this story ended a bit too abruptly and some of you asked for one more chapter, an epilogue, something. I had felt it was a good stopping point. To me, we all know how it ends, and to write it was just more-of-the-same-you've-read-thousands-of-times-before. But I'm a softie. So this is for all of you who wanted to see more of this particular tale. I tried my best not to fall into that same-old-same-old. Hope I succeeded, but I'll let you be the judge. There's only so many ways to write about... well. About how it "ends". If I failed, let me know too. I apologise and promise I'll try harder next time.

For those of you who favorited/asked for more, but didn't set up a follow to the story, I'll post this not only as chapter 17, but also by itself. If you stumbled upon this by itself, but haven't read my story called "Man in Uniform", you might want to. It'll be more satisfying this way; you can always go back to it by clicking on my name. If you don't want to, that's fine too. This could almost fit all of my other stories, published or still in my Beta's "desk". So consider this a multi-purpose ending and refer to it if you ever feel disappointed in the future.

My Beta says I should name this "The artistically-unnecessary-but-extremely-satisfying-one-ending-fits-all Epilogue to Man in Uniform". :) But I heard you and I understand. I hope you enjoy it.

And yes, this is Johnlock, mature for content. And disclaimer: still don't own. Otherwise the show would be very different. Or rather, it would resemble Fanfiction. A lot.

B.

17. Epilogue (to "Man in Uniform")

Sherlock stared, unsure of what he should do or say. Then, out of nowhere, something came to him. Or rather, his transport provided him the answer. He became suddenly aware of and overwhelmed by a strong impulse. He wanted nothing more than to take those three steps that separated them, lean forward, touch his face, kiss him, kiss his neck, kiss his shoulder. Yes, that seems appropriate, his brain approved. He was just lifting his foot off the ground when he was hit on the head by something light, that left him impossibly dazed. He heard laughter - children's laughter, and saw the rather large beach ball bouncing lightly past him. A gaggle of loudly laughing kids came from the beach, seeping through in between the boulders like water. There were at least six of them, boys and girls, aged anywhere between seven and ten, laughing, screaming, discussing what they were playing, unaware of what they had just interrupted.

Sherlock looked back at John who, with a contained smile, looked down in resignation: that will have to wait. He looked back up, smiling. 'We should head back.'

Sherlock nodded automatically, and followed him.

They kept on walking, slowly making their way back, each to their own thoughts. John had felt how both of them had stood on the edge of a precipice right before the children had interrupted them. He looked at the sea and took a deep breath. Am I ready for this?

Now walking on the sand at an unhurried pace, John kept on staring at his own feet. 'This is all very new to me Sherlock. I never-. Well, you know.' he trailed off.

'I know. I have.'

John stopped dead on his track. 'You have?'

'Oh please, John. Don't tell me you believed Mycroft.'

'Huh. I- I guess I did.'

'John, how could I live with not knowing something? Me!'

'I guess once you put it that way...'

Sherlock gave a dismissive shrug and resumed walking.

'I just- I don't know. Do you- do you really- what do you feel? For me, I mean.'

Sherlock took a deep breath. He stopped and turned to look at John. 'Nobody has ever been like you, John. I've never wanted anyone like I want you.'

John's stomach dropped and he swallowed. His brow creased and his breathing quickened as he stared into Sherlock's eyes. He felt it once again, as if he were at the very edge of a precipice. As if he were at the edge of a whirlpool at sea, about to fall into the spiralling vortex. Once he took that one step there'd be no turning back. But now, looking into his eyes he knew: ready or not, he couldn't and wouldn't run away anymore. What existed between the two of them was stronger than anything else that came before. Right now the very air around them was so charged he could feel it in his skin.

Sherlock surprised himself with what came out of his mouth. He roamed his eyes around John's face, his eyes bright blue in the sunlight, shiny and intense. He saw the instant John resolved to accept his own feelings. All for him. For me! He felt a surge of emotions so powerful that made him tremble. He turned abruptly and started walking at a fast pace.

'Wait! Sherlock!'

'Keep walking John,' he said without turning his head, speeding up his pace. John hurriedly followed.

'Sherlock, what the hell?' John was nearly jogging to keep up at Sherlock's side.

'John, not here.'

'Wha-'

'Shut up, John. Walk.'

...

As they walked into their hotel room, both were hyper aware of the possibilities, now that their feelings were out in the open. When he felt himself trembling, Sherlock felt fear: fear of losing control and nearly attacking John right there in public, fear of repelling John for being so public, fear for appearing fearful of him, fear of the unknown territory of sentiment, fear from this intense urge to have him. Despite his earlier desperation, now that Sherlock was alone with John he felt the same uncertainty once again. He still wanted, more than anything, to hold him, kiss him, touch him. Yet, to actually do it felt like trying to get through an insurmountable barrier. How does one proceed? This doesn't feel natural.

John walked in, feeling a bit leery of what could happen. Miffed at first, as they hurried along he understood: Sherlock just couldn't handle his emotions. He saw the trembling, which was surprising coming from someone who was always so under control. But now, alone in the bedroom, he didn't know how to go about it. Sherlock seemed to be going through the same questions. Should they kiss? Should they embrace? Should they just talk? Should they sit together on one of the beds? Should he sit on the chair and keep some distance before they decided on what to do? A bed felt too much like wanting an intimacy, of which he wasn't very sure about just yet. The chair seemed too distant and awkward. So John opted to lean against the chest of drawers and turn to face him. An echo of their earlier positions at the beach.

Sherlock merely stared at him, a hint of apprehension showing on his face. 'Sherlock,' he said quietly, extending both hands with palms up.

Sherlock's breath quickened and he took the steps that separated them. He wasn't sure if he should take John's hands in his, or step in for an embrace. John solved the question by raising his hands to meet the approaching face.

'Kiss me, Sherlock,' he whispered.

Whether it was the words, the touch, the tone of his voice, he didn't know. But he let himself go and all he could do was let a moan of relief escape his lips. And kiss him. Kiss him like he had wanted for so long, kiss him as if his life depended on it (for all he knew, it did), kiss him as if there were no tomorrow. He could die a happy man right now (Well, not right now). He felt John's lips, the wetness, the taste, the touch. The strong arms around him, tugging them close with overwhelming passion and tenderness. This was love. And he, Sherlock Holmes, was in love.

Sherlock's moans were nothing like what he had expected or anticipated. And the kiss! Never in a million years he would've guessed Sherlock could express so much passion in a kiss. And to know that he, John Watson, the retired army doctor, the former soldier, the assistant-blogger-helper-minder of Sherlock Holmes, was the one causing this reaction in him was heady and unbelievable.

Sherlock allowed his transport to take charge. He dipped to kiss and nip at John's neck, inhale his personal scent, loosing himself in the physical heaven that was John. He could smell sand, sun cream, sweat, him. His mind travelled back to the image of John in fatigues, sun, sand, desert, uniform... His own breathing was laboured and loud now, he moaned with each and every touch on the beloved tanned skin. He tightened his embrace, he wanted more of him, all of him. He started to mash his body against John's as if this would allow them to become one.

'Sherl-' John tried to say, only to be silenced by a kiss. He tried again and again, trying to push them apart, but the more he did this, the more Sherlock tightened his grip. His neck was bending uncomfortably up and backwards. The chest of drawers was digging painfully on his backside, as he kept getting pushed by the demanding hips rolling into his.

'Sherlock!' He almost yelled, pushing them apart.

Sherlock had a startled look on his face. Did he not want this?

John took a deep breath. 'Sorry. A bit too fast for me, Sherlock,' he panted. Seeing the alarm and confusion on his face, John hugged him. It took a few seconds until Sherlock hugged him back with a hunger that John would have never guessed him capable of. So he whispered in his ear, 'I love you, Sherlock. Please be patient with me.'

Sherlock's only response was a mixture of a moan and a whimper. He pulled away and looked into John's eyes. 'Lie with me.'

John swallowed and frowned. He didn't feel ready. Yet, he couldn't ignore the fire that Sherlock's words and tone of voice ignited inside him.

Seeing the struggle so clearly in his face, he added, 'John, I don't mean that. Please, just lie with me and kiss me.'

He nodded, so Sherlock backed away slowly. And once more, John followed.

They lay on their sides, facing each other, not touching for now, only looking into each other's eyes, both feeling awkward and self conscious. 'Kiss me again, John. Please.'

John reached for his face and, raising himself slightly, kissed him. Instinctively, Sherlock rolled a bit to receive him, which made John's face follow, hovering above. His hand slid from the face to feel the neck, the shoulder.

Sherlock touched John's side and ran his hand towards his back, his scent so inviting. He had dreamed of this for so long. The back muscles felt harder than he had expected, yet the hand that caressed him now was much more tender and gentler than he had imagined.

John understood now why Sherlock had suggested they lie down. Not only the difference in height was solved, but also, it gave John control over the situation. Sherlock rolling onto his back also gave John the upper hand, so to speak. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was calculated, but he was thankful either way. This made him feel more in control of what could happen or what he wanted to happen. He slowed their kissing down and took his time tasting and exploring those lips. Sherlock's scent, his freshly shaved face, the heat and softness of his skin told him yes, he was ready for this. He loved him. But more than anything, it was the slight tremble he could feel in him, reacting to the kisses and touches that made him sure of it. He moved and lay on top of Sherlock, exploring the mouth and the feel of his body, so solid under him. Muscular, bony, flat chested. Like nothing else he had experienced before. Even the more athletic women he had dated in the past hadn't felt this solid. And the bulge. That would be a bit disturbing if he were to pause and think about it, so he tried not to. It's Sherlock. It's only Sherlock.

Sherlock enjoyed feeling the weight of John's body on top of his and being allowed to roam his hands, sliding, squeezing, cupping. This compact body of his was indeed a pleasure heaven, a haven, a home. Once again he felt himself tremble, but rather than being alarmed, this time it felt more like being intoxicated. It was a high better than what he ever had with any drugs or cigarettes. He started moving by instinct, seeking friction and pressure. John's hands were now caressing his face and that simple gesture felt so enjoyable, so intimate and tender. These were the same hands that healed and killed, yet, so gentle and loving. John's body responded and he also started moving, leaving Sherlock light headed, unable to control his breathing. It sounded loud to his own ears. John wanted him like this, in this way.

John broke the kiss, panting, looking into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock groaned with the loss of contact, yet couldn't help but close his eyes; the intensity of his physical sensations and his mental short circuiting overwhelming, overriding his brain. Seeing Sherlock like this, letting go of his usual self control, expressing pleasure at what they were doing, allowing him to do this, was unbelievable. Amazing yet again, even in this. And I'm the one doing this to him! Sherlock's face and neck were red now, his eyes closed, mouth open letting out breathy exhales of pleasure. Right then and there, he realised he didn't care that Sherlock was a man. The sight was so erotic that John was overwhelmed by desire and completely lost it. He closed his eyes and pushed his hips harder into the body under him, frantically, desperately. That was Sherlock under him. Sherlock that he was feeling, hard against him. Sherlock, who was showing equal desire for him. Sherlock's hands on him. Suddenly, it all became too much and he felt himself bursting with love, joy, pride.

Sherlock opened his eyes as he felt the increased intensity in John's moves. He was doing this to John. For him, John was making an exception. For him, John allowed himself to be aroused by a man. John didn't desire the handsome Max, he desired him, the sociopath, the freak. Fascinated, he watched and marvelled at the sight of John arching his back, closing his eyes as if in pain, exposing his throat to him. Beetroot red all over, goose pimples visible on his neck, mouth open, his head shaking from side to side at each spasm. He felt the waves of pleasure that coursed through John's body and showed on his face. He felt infinitely proud that he had done this to John. He must've been really aroused to have finished so quickly like this. John's spasms pressed him painfully, but he didn't care. He was enjoying being pinned and letting John "have his way with him", he thought, slightly ashamed. This had surpassed his wildest fantasies.

To John, this time it felt never ending, as if it were lasting longer than usual. With a final shudder he collapsed on top of Sherlock, panting, sweaty, light headed. Never in his life it had been this intense, and they hadn't even touched each other's skin yet. They still had their clothes on.

To Sherlock, even though he was proud to have excited John so strongly, he couldn't help but to feel a little disappointed. He did understand that the ending turned out to be a long and intense experience for John and was immensely happy to have been the cause of it. John's sweat, the strong and accelerated heartbeat against his own chest the joyful proof that this had really happened. Yet, it was over now and he craved more.

They lay in bed for a while, John trying to catch his breath, coming down from his high. Sherlock, cooling down in his disappointment and trying to decide wether or not it was appropriate to embrace him.

Then, to his surprise, he felt sensual kisses on his neck again and a hand caressing it. John's mouth was hugely distracting, but slowly he became aware of the meandering hand that lazily caressed his shoulder, squeezing it. The hand never stopped; it traveled slowly, exploring, his mere touch more intense than anything Sherlock had ever experienced before. Goose pimples sprung throughout his body, following the wake of his touch. Over the shirt, a finger swept over his nipple, making Sherlock gasp. He felt a smile against his neck and once more he felt dizzy and overwhelmed. John shifted his hips out of the way, one leg still over the thigh, between his legs. The innocent gesture more possessive and arousing than Sherlock would've ever guessed. With a sharp intake of breath, Sherlock's hips bucked up against the firm hand that pressed against him and he let out a breathy 'Oh', more of an exhale rather than sound. That sexy whisper broke any reservations John might still have held. He undid the fly.

Usually, the biggest turn on for John was to give pleasure, to see his partners enjoying themselves. That's why he had always been praised as being good in bed. It was no different with Sherlock. In fact, it was even more intense, now that it was someone he loved. Someone that, as a general rule, avoided relationships and physical contact. The enormity of what was happening hit him and made him ache. He had imagined that touching another man would feel strange, unappealing even. But now he was surprised by how natural it felt. More than anything, it was watching Sherlock's face that made it so appealing.

That first touch was so intensely pleasurable that Sherlock felt faint. All the blood in his body seemed to have shifted in a shockwave. Sensing something wrong, John hesitated. 'Sherlock?'

After a few heartbeats, a most erotic breathy groan rasped in Sherlock's throat.

Taking this as a positive sign, John relaxed and started moving his hand, watching Sherlock's face in awe. He watched the responses and adjusted as needed. All too soon Sherlock became frantic. Suddenly he bucked his hips off the bed and his head was thrown so far back that all John could see was his chin and neck. He spasmed violently, biting his shouts down between clenched teeth, head coming up and slamming back down on the bed several times. Chest, neck and face going a deeper red.

Not so different after all. Beautiful.

John was embarrassed for having finished so fast. He had been so aroused they hadn't even had time to undress. But then, Sherlock had been nearly as quick. Still half sprawled on top of Sherlock, he interlaced the fingers of their free hands and stayed like this for... a few minutes? Ten minutes? He lost track.

No matter. We'll have plenty of time now.

J+S