A/N: I don't even know what to say, guys. It was so painful and yet so wonderful to write this chapter and finally put Love Ballads to rest. This has been an incredible journey and I can't thank you all enough for embarking on it with me.

Enjoy :)

Beginning: (noun) the start of something new

…

1.

Six weeks later:

"John," Sherlock calls from his room, popping his head up from underneath the bed. "Have you seen my data journal? I can't find it anywhere and I need to record the newest development in my mold cultures."

From the kitchen, John calls, "It's probably in my room again. Check the nightstand."

Sherlock dashes out of his bedroom and joins John by the stove, where he is diligently preparing their morning cup of tea. "Why would it be in there?"

John pushes up on his toes to grab the sugar out of the cupboard. "You brought it in there when you were recording the number of freckles on my shoulder or something, remember?"

Sherlock circles his arms around John's waist and rests his chin on John's shoulder. "No, I was recording your breathing patterns. The freckles were a bonus."

"Either way, it's in there," John says. Once he's finished pouring their tea, he turns around and grabs Sherlock by his belt loop, pulling him in for a kiss. "Good morning, fiancé," he murmurs against Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock hums in delight. "Good morning, indeed." They stand there for several minutes exchanging increasingly passionate kisses, until John's hands slide down to Sherlock's bum and Sherlock realizes that if he doesn't escape now, they'll end up back in bed. Again.

"I'd like to look for my journal now, so you'll have to release me, John," he mutters into the kiss.

John pulls back and sighs. "You mean I can't keep my hands on your arse all morning?"

"Unfortunately, no. You'll just have to settle with all afternoon."

"Fine, I suppose I'll survive."

"Good." He allows John to peck his forehead, a sweet, oddly comforting gesture John has been indulging in quite a lot these days, and then turns on his heel to go.

…

In his blind pursuit for his data journal, Sherlock ends up emptying John's entire nightstand. Or so he thinks. Because just when he's sure that he's removed everything, his hand brushes against something strange at the very bottom of the drawer. Among John's hodgepodge of ballpoint pens, spare change, old receipts, and coupon clippings, resides a worn-looking leather journal about the size of Sherlock's hand. On the front, carved in jagged letters, are the initials JW. Sherlock's interest is immediately piqued because this is one of the few items in John's room that Sherlock has never seen before.

As much as Sherlock would like to just flip the thing open and read it cover to cover, he can't invade John's privacy like that. He knows this because two weeks ago, John gave him a very helpful seminar on the Dos and Don'ts of married life, in honor of their recent engagement.

…

"Now that we're going to be married, I think we should talk about what's okay and what's a bit not good," John had said. "There are a lot of Do's and Don'ts in relationships. And even though I'm more than happy to share everything with you, I do need to keep a few things sacred."

"Your statement is contradictory, John, because if you want to share everything, then logically, there cannot be any exceptions."

"Oi, you know what I meant. Now then, let's get started." He cleared his throat. "Do: step into the shower with me unannounced."

He added 'showering together' to the list on their whiteboard, which had the Okay things marked with green checkmarks and the Bit Not Good things marked with red 'X's. "If I'm in a sour mood then I might tell you that I'd rather shower alone, but I promise you those instances will be few and far between."

"Okay," Sherlock agreed.

"Don't: use my personal property in your experiments. Like my watch, for example," John said, giving Sherlock a pointed look, as Sherlock had recently tested his metal-eating chemical solution on the wristband of John's somewhat new Timex. "And absolutely do not secretly drug me for data-gathering purposes."

"Understood."

"Do: store your things in my drawers. You can keep whatever you want in there, as long as it isn't living, toxic, or deeply disturbing."

"And what would you qualify as deeply disturbing? Because you and I have been known to disagree on that definition in the past."

"Listen, if it isn't something you would release into Mrs. Hudson's flat, then don't bring it into my room. That includes freshly-cleaned bones, a box of dead spiders, jars of saliva, or petrified fingers."

"The dead spiders were important, John, I needed to find out how—"

"Yes, I know, you explained your reasoning in detail as I was making you dump them out the window last Thursday. Moving on. Don't: rifle through my things without my permission."

"So I can't go through your closet? Or your drawers?"

"No and no. Not unless I tell you that you can, and nine times out of ten, if you ask me first, I'll let you."

"Fair enough."

…

"John," Sherlock says, stepping into the kitchen. "May I read this?"

John's eyes widen at the sight of the journal and he pauses in the act of buttering his toast. "Where did you find that?" He doesn't sound upset or angry, just curious.

"The very bottom of your nightstand drawer. I know you told me not to snoop around in there, but I was just looking for my data notebook and I stumbled across it."

"No, yeah, it's fine, it's just, I haven't seen that thing in ages." A nostalgic smile passes over his face. "You can read it, but if you don't mind, I'd like to read it too."

Sherlock beams and hurries over to the kitchen table. "Here, scoot over and I'll sit beside you."

John obliges and Sherlock pulls a chair up next to John and places the journal in front of them. For some reason, he feels incredibly excited to discover the book's contents. He's known about it for less than ten minutes, but the mystery of it entices him nonetheless. Why did it make John look so fond and reminiscent? Was there a reason it was stowed so deeply in his drawer? How old is it?

The first page is simply a grocery list:

Milk

Dish soap

2 containers of Hydrolyzed Keratin extract (?)

Eggs

Sugar

Sherlock glances at the date and realizes it was written only two weeks after John moved in. "You've had this journal for nearly five years, John?"

"Yeah, I guess I have," John says. "Time bloody flies, doesn't it?"

The next few entries are mostly just grocery lists and 'notes to self' about chores and clinic-related business, so Sherlock skips forward a bit. The first page with an actual entry is dated about six months after they met.

Finally seems as if I've found my place in the world. My flatmate is bloody brilliant, this flat feels like home, and solving cases is absolutely incredible. It's been a long time since I've felt this content. No intention of leaving anytime soon.

From that page and onward, the writing continues to express John's newfound happiness and mental peace. After the year and half mark, however, the entries begin looking different.

Enigma

Out in space

There are roving planets, dying stars, melting matter that drips unseen from here to there but

The only thing worth note in this entire damned universe is you:

A glowing sun, a black hole, a cluster of constellations I cannot name.

"Ah, yes, I remember seeing this in one of your word documents," Sherlock says. "This was a poem for one of your girlfriends, wasn't it?"

John shakes his head. "Nope."

"No?" Sherlock frowns and looks back at the page. "Then who was it for?"

"Keep reading," is all John says in response.

Sherlock looks at the entry for one year and seven months:

The Colors of Longing

Rosebud mouth, dark hair;

Beauty surrounds you like an aura: an inescapable light that glows beneath your skin

no matter how hard you try to rid yourself of it

You are ethereal.

You are light, you are darkness, you are the sun and the moon and the stars above

Sometimes I wonder how I will ever be worthy of you

Other times I wonder what I would give just to kiss away that

Frown.

Then, one year and eleven months:

The Warm Pauses in Between

The words are there, waiting in my mouth.

When you speak, it comes to you so easily—an effortless deluge of information and observation.

When I speak, confessions cling to the backs of my teeth, secrets rest on the tip of my tongue;

I long for the day when I can finally say I love you.

Beside him, John leans closer and plants a kiss on his cheek. "I love you."

Sherlock blinks and blinks for a long time as the realization slowly dawns on him. "You mean to say, this whole time, the poems were…for me?"

John smiles and nods. "You got it, love."

"I was certain those poems were for your girlfriends," Sherlock says dazedly. "This whole time I thought they were for the silly women you were always dating."

"Nope," John replies simply, laying his hand over Sherlock's. "I've been mad about you for ages."

The notion that John has always felt this way about him is almost too much to comprehend. For years, he was sure that he was the only one pining and longing for something more. Unable to think of anything to say, Sherlock meets John's eyes and raises their joined hands to his mouth for a kiss.

"I'm so lucky to have you, John," he says, meaning the words with every fiber of his being.

2.

After spending months planning for Mary's wedding, John and Sherlock are wholly disinterested in the idea of a big ceremony. Sherlock is tempted to suggest that they just elope and skip this tiring process altogether, but then he wouldn't be able to show off John and publicly celebrate their love, and that simply won't do. So, after a bit of collective brainstorming, they decide that a small, modest ceremony with only their closest family and friends is the best choice.

"So, who's coming from your side?" John asks, holding a pen cap between his teeth as he jots down the guest list.

The two of them are sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by various wedding paraphernalia—invitations, seating charts, food vendor information. As it turns out, even the world's smallest wedding requires at least a week of planning.

"Mycroft and my mother. My distant relatives aren't particularly fond of me and I'm fairly certain most of them would abhor the lack of a bride."

"Yes, let's try to keep the number of homophobic guests to a minimum," John agrees, scribbling down the two new additions. "As for me, I'll just be inviting Harry."

Sherlock crooks a brow in interest. The last time John and Harry conversed over the phone was right before Mary's wedding, and that hadn't ended too amicably. "Have you spoken to Harry recently?"

"Yeah, last weekend, actually. She called me, which is a first. I've always had to pester her with emails and texts for weeks before she even considers answering the phone."

"What did she say? How has she been?"

"Well, she's been clean for about six months now, if that's what you're asking. I was very pleased to hear it. She said she was calling because Mum phoned her about our engagement and she wanted to make sure that she was invited to the wedding. She said she 'couldn't bear to miss it'. She likes you, apparently."

"Likes me?" Sherlock echoes. "We've only met once and it wasn't even in person."

Sherlock is, of course, referring to an event that transpired sometime during the first year he and John lived in together. One evening, after finishing a conversation with Harry, John had left Skype open on his laptop in the sitting room, and Sherlock, being the curious (or, as some former army doctors might say, nosy) person that he was, decided to seize the opportunity. He'd sat in front of the computer and introduced himself to Harry, who seemed pleasantly surprised to meet him. They had a brief, extremely dry-humored chat about nothing in particular, before Harry signed off by saying, "You're a strange bloke, Sherlock Holmes. And please, take that as a compliment, because I meant it as one".

"Still. She thinks you're clever and she likes your wit."

"Well, that's good, I'm quite fond of her myself."

"Yes, I'm sure you two smart arses will get along just fine," John says with an eye roll. "But anyway, yes, Harry will be there, so that's one more seat," His pen scribbles across the paper once more. "Now then, onto friends. Who would you like to invite?"

"Janine, of course," Sherlock says. "And I'd also like to invite Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly Hooper."

John nods and writes them down.

"What about you, John? Your army mates? People from Uni?"

John stops writing and mulls it over. "Well, I'd rather not invite my entire barracks again—Mary wanted as many people as possible at our wedding—so I suppose I'll just invite my best army mate, Chris, and a few rugby blokes."

"Chris Maloney?"

"That's the one. Oh, and Mike Stamford, too!" John adds. "After all, he's the reason we met, isn't he? The least we owe him is the chance to see the fruits of his labor."

3.

The wedding hall is small but absolutely beautiful. There are no elaborate color schemes or custom-made decorations hanging from the rafters, but the room thrums with life and love all the same. Sunlight from the tall windows spills into the hall, coloring the marble floor with a lovely golden glow, and classical musics wafts around them like perfume, filling the air with the sweet, lulling notes of Bach's Cello Suite No. 1.

John takes Sherlock's hand in his and together they walk through the small crowd of guests. "You ready to mingle?" he asks, his eyes bright and eager.

"I am," Sherlock says, and for the first time in ages, he actually means it. Socializing is usually such a tiring process, but now that the primary topic of discussion will be his and John's impending union, he couldn't be more eager to walk around the room and engage in smalltalk.

"Good," John says with a smile, "because there's Chris right now."

Christopher Maloney, a hulking, muscular man with a typical army crew cut, stands a few feet away, looking almost comically out of place with a bow tie wrapped around his trunk-like neck and a delicate flute of champagne grasped in his strong, impossibly huge hand. As soon as he lays eyes on John and Sherlock, his face splits in a grin.

"Oi! Johnny H. Watson, I've been looking all over for you, you bastard!" Christopher bellows with a laugh. He salutes John and John does the same, their eyes shining bright with camaraderie.

"It's good to see you, Chris," John says, taking his hand in a hearty shake. He turns to Sherlock and by force of habit, drops his hand to the small of Sherlock's back. It's a familiar, romantic gesture that John has indulged in countless times before, but it still makes Sherlock's heart beat a little faster, as if it's the first time. "Sherlock, this is my mate, Chris. Chris, this is my soon-to-be-husband, Sherlock."

Sherlock quietly preens at the title, still so unused to having it attached to his name. "Hello, Christopher. Sherlock Holmes, pleasure to meet you." He extends his hand for a shake.

Christopher grins and pumps Sherlock's arm with the vigor and enthusiasm of a man churning butter, and Sherlock does his best to avoid being whipped about like a rag doll. "So, you're the one who finally managed to tie down ole Three Continents Watson, yeah?"

Sherlock glances at John, who turns a bit pink at the name. Sherlock smirks. "It seems I am."

"Well, kudos to you, mate," he laughs. "By the way, I've read some of your cases on John's blog and you're bloody brilliant!" Despite his large stature and masculine features, this man reminds Sherlock of an overly excited child, with his bright eyes and ridiculously wide smile.

"Thank you," Sherlock says, inclining his head in gratitude. Politely, he inquires, "Any particular cases that stood out to you?"

"Bloody hell, the one about the hounds and the government, for sure! Had me on a sodding rollercoaster, that one. Oh, and the one where those shady businessmen were done in by that gang of smugglers—absolutely mad! I can't believe you and Johnny actually lived through all that!"

"It's certainly an interesting way of life," Sherlock agrees.

John snorts. "Yeah, interesting is one word for it."

Chris looks between them and grins. "Well, anyway, I just wanted to wish you lot all the happiness in the world. You make a bloody handsome couple." He tackles John in a hug and gives him a spirited pat on the back. "Congrats, Johnny."

Then he turns around and embraces Sherlock too, squeezing him so hard that he nearly lifts all six feet of him off the ground. "You've got a good one here, mate. Hold onto him."

"I will," Sherlock wheezes, his lungs fairly crushed by the man's gorilla-like grip. Satisfied with his answer, Christopher releases him with a wide smile. "I'm off to mingle, now, have fun, you two!"

…

As Sherlock expected, Mycroft arrives to the wedding with Anthea on his arm. She is wearing a sleek, deep-purple dress that perfectly compliments the accents on Mycroft's tie, and high heels that set the two of them at roughly the same height. Her clear blue eyes sweep through the crowd, observing the guests and atmosphere as keenly as a Holmes.

"Brother," Sherlock says, a small smile on his face. He extends his hand and Mycroft takes it in a firm shake. He turns to his brother's companion. "Hello, Anthea, it's been some time since we've seen each other."

"Indeed, Mr. Holmes," she says, shaking his hand as well. "Congratulations. I can think of no better partner for you than John Watson."

"Neither can I," Mycroft adds, his gaze genuine and bright. "I'm very happy for you, brother."

Sherlock thinks back to that terrible, desperate night when he showed up on Mycroft's porch and begged for advice on how to survive without John, and Mycroft had told him to do whatever he could to keep John in his life. He remembers the deep sincerity in his brother's eyes as he warned Sherlock not to let go of John. And now, thanks to a series of rather unprecedented events and his brother's constant guidance, Sherlock has finally been able to win the heart of the man he has always sought after.

"Thank you, Mycroft."

Mycroft glances over Sherlock's shoulder and raises a brow. "Ah, I nearly forgot; a Miss Harriet Watson has been looking for you. There she is now."

Sherlock turns around and finds the woman in question standing several feet away, nearly swallowed by the bustling crowd. She's short and stocky with dirty-blonde hair, a sharp jaw, and dark blue eyes. Sherlock recognizes her in an instant. "Harry!" he calls, waving to attract her attention. She waves back with a half smile and begins walking towards him.

"Mycroft, Anthea, I'll have to speak with you later," Sherlock says, inclining his head. "Please, enjoy yourselves."

"We will, Sherlock," Anthea says with a smile.

Mycroft glances at the dessert bar and raises a surreptitious brow. "Yes, I've been meaning to investigate those chocolate eclairs…" He clears his throat and takes Anthea's hand, guiding her away. "We'll talk later, Sherlock."

…

"Sherlock Holmes," Harry says, coming to stop before him. She looks him up and down and smirks. "Good to finally see those cheekbones of yours in person."

Sherlock raises an amused brow. "Oh?"

"Yes, John has been describing them in vivid detail for the past two days over text, so it's quite interesting to finally see them for myself. 'Bloody pieces of artwork', he said. Not sure if I would agree, but you know, John is bound to have some bias."

Warmth immediately starts to rise on Sherlock's face. "John said that?"

Harry laughs, though not unkindly. "For Christ's sake, you're marrying him in a few hours and you're still blushing over the idea of him complimenting you?" She snorts and shakes her head. "You two are positively nauseating."

Sherlock makes a noise of indignation. "I'll have you know, your brother is typically the sappier half of this relationship. It seems that marriage has brought out the far more pedestrian side in me."

"It would seem so," Harry chuckles. "Listen, it's clear that you know this already, but I'm going to tell you anyway because I think you need to hear it. John is mad for you. Absolutely bloody mad. As long as I've been alive, I've never seen him care for someone as deeply as he cares for you. He thinks the world of you, Sherlock. He thinks you're the sodding sun." She offers a crooked smile and squeezes Sherlock's arm. "He loves you and I know you love him, so allow me to impart some advice I wish someone gave me when I got married." She takes a deep breath and stares up at him with sincere, steady eyes. "Never let him go, Sherlock. No matter how hard it might be sometimes, you have to always fight for your relationship. Nothing is going to be perfect, but it can get pretty damn close if you take the time to make things work."

Sherlock blinks, surprised by Harry's words. "Thank you, Harry. I will."

Shaking off her sober disposition, Harry releases his arm and steps back. "Now then, if you'll excuse me, that red-haired waitress over there has been making eyes at me for the past five minutes and I'd love to find out if she's doing anything this Saturday."

Sherlock glances at the waitress in question and sees that she is indeed checking Harry out. After a moment of scanning her clothing—namely her seashell earrings and her rubber Queen 1986, bracelet—he clasps his hand behind his back and says, "She's a big fan of classic rock and she has a great fondness for the beach. Do with that what you will."

"Splendid." Harry smirks, turning on her heel with a spring in her step. "Talk to you later, Cheekbones."

…

"Oh, Sherly!" A shrill, feminine voice calls from within the crowd of guests. In the two and a half seconds it takes for Sherlock to turn around, Mummy is already grabbing him and pulling him into a suffocating embrace. "Oh, my darling boy, you cannot possibly comprehend how happy I am for you."

"Mummy," Sherlock says, a bit disoriented from the abrupt, affectionate assault. "Thank you, I—"

Just as quickly as the hug began, it ends, and Mummy pulls back with a determined look on her face. "Now, where on earth is your lovely finance? I've only ever seen pictures of him and I simply cannot stand not knowing him for a moment longer!"

"Ah, yes, John. I believe he's right over there, by the beverages."

"Well then let's go!" Mummy cries, grabbing Sherlock's hand and dragging him towards the refreshment table. "Not a moment to lose!"

John is in the middle of restocking the champagne glasses when Sherlock and Mummy finally reach him. Sherlock loudly clears his throat in hopes of giving John some sort of warning.

"Oh, Sherlock," John smiles. "I was just—"

But he doesn't have the chance to finish that thought, because Mummy is too busy shrieking in joy.

"John Watson, John Hamish Watson, oh, you're the man who has made my Sherly so happy," she gushes, dragging John into an embrace. She gives him an enthusiastic kiss on the top of his head and then holds him at arm's length, her eyes teary and overjoyed. "Oh, you're so handsome." She looks back at Sherlock. "You've found such a handsome husband, Sherlock. And an Army Doctor to boot! Oh heavens," she says, fanning herself.

John grins, apparently charmed by Mummy's antics. "It's so lovely to finally meet you, Mrs. Holmes."

"Oh, please, dear, call me Violet. And I assure you, the pleasure is all mine. You have done so much for my darling Sherlock, I cannot possibly thank you enough." She wipes a budding tear from the corner of her eye. "Oh, he loves you so dearly, my boy. So, so dearly. I've never seen Sherlock so deeply smitten with anyone before. You are an absolute angel."

"Actually, it's me who's the lucky one," John says, glancing at Sherlock with a fond smile. "He's the most incredible person I've ever met and it will be such an honor to finally call him my husband. I honestly don't know what I would do without him."

Practically weeping with joy, Mummy hugs him again. "I am so happy for you boys, I'm so glad you managed to find each other."

Over her shoulder, John looks at Sherlock with a sappy smile on his face, his blue gaze warm and full of endearment.

"Mummy, you should know, Mycroft brought a date," Sherlock says once she and John have separated, hoping to focus Mummy's rampant affection elsewhere.

Her eyes immediately light up with interest. "A girlfriend, you mean? Mikey finally has a proper girlfriend? Oh, goodness, this is too much happiness for one day. When did they meet? How long have they been together? What is her name? What is she like?"

"I'm sure Mycroft would be more than happy to answer all of those questions, Mummy," Sherlock says smoothly. "In fact, there they are now." He points to where Mycroft and Anthea are sitting rather close together at a nearby table, talking quietly and smiling at each other.

Sherlock is saved the effort of convincing Mummy to speak to them, because the moment he points them out, she's already making a beeline for the table.

"I like your mum, Sherlock," John says with a grin.

…

"Janine," Sherlock says with a sigh, "for the sixth time, we cannot take a 'nice picture' together if you keep crying."

"I know," she sniffs, dabbing her red nose with her handkerchief. "But you two are just s-so happy and lovely, I just can't h-help myself!"

Then cameraman stands several feet away, tapping his foot impatiently and unsubtly checking his watch. They began this process about twenty minutes ago and so far the only semi-useable picture they've taken is one wherein Janine is turning away to grab more tissues from her purse.

"Oh, dear," Mrs Hudson says, glancing at Janine and beginning to sniffle. "If you keep crying, you'll get me going too."

Beside her, Lestrade rubs a hand down his face. "Bloody hell," he mutters, his voice suddenly thick. "I promised myself I wouldn't do this, but now that we're here…" he wipes his eyes and clears this throat. "Oh, hell, Sherlock, you better take the photo now before I really start getting choked up."

"Dear god," Sherlock groans, shoving his hands over his eyes. "Can you all please stop weeping for one moment so the cameraman can take at least one usable picture? Or, if you lot would prefer, he can take the photograph with everyone looking sad, and this wedding will forever be mistaken for a funeral."

"I'm just so happy!" Janine keens, her voice high-pitched and squeaky. "So—hic—happy!"

John sighs and takes Sherlock's hand in his. "Looks like we're just going to have to settle with a bunch of crying people in our photograph, love."

"Oi!" a loud voice rings out. Everybody abruptly pauses in their crying to look for the source of the outburst. Surprisingly, Molly steps forward.

She places her hands on her hips and surveys the group of watery-eyed people. "Listen up, everyone, John and Sherlock need a happy photo to commemorate their wedding and after all they've been through to get here, we owe it to them to get it right. So, no more tears! You get ten more seconds to get it out of your system and then we are all going to dry our eyes and smile for the poor photographer, who most likely has a cramp from standing there for so long. Understood?"

Shocked by Molly's unexpected authority, everyone immediately calms down. The cameraman practically wilts in relief.

"Alright," he calls, holding up the camera. "On the count of three, everyone say 'wedding day'. One…two…three!"

"Wedding day!"

…

The wedding proceeds in a blur of music, laughter, teary-eyed proclamations of love, and endless well-wishes from their guests. Although prolonged socialization usually gets tiresome after a while, Sherlock finds himself feeling energized by all of the positive vibes surrounding him.

When the time finally comes for them to exchange vows, Sherlock's hands won't stop shaking. It isn't out of nervousness or fear, it's from excitement. From disbelief, too. It just feels so utterly surreal to finally be standing here at the altar with John, holding John's ring in his hand, mere minutes away from promising to spend the rest of their lives together. His heart feels so full that it nearly hurts, but it's a sweet ache. The kind of ache that signifies the depth and boundlessness of his love.

"You may now exchange vows," the officiator says with a smile. A hush falls over the crowd and every head swivels to look at them.

"Sherlock, you are my best friend," John says, taking Sherlock's hands in his. His voice is a bit shaky, but his blue eyes never waver from Sherlock's face. "From the moment I met you, you were the most important person in my life. I promise to always follow wherever you lead, accept you as you are, and help you when you're down. I promise to love you when we are together and when we are apart. I know we won't always see eye to eye on things and sometimes we'll fight or misunderstand each other, but I promise to always forgive you at the end of the day. I promise I'll never leave you. I promise to support your dreams and to respect our differences, and to love you and be by your side through all the days and nights of our lives. I want nothing more than to grow old with you, Sherlock. You've brought so much light and beauty to my life, and I'll never stop thanking you for that. You saved me."

Sherlock realizes he's a huge hypocrite, because now he's the one who can't stop tearing up in happiness. Apparently, Janine wasn't so irrational after all. He takes a shaky breath and tightens his grip on John's hands. "John, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me," he begins, his voice trembling a bit. "I love everything about you, from your scars to middle name to your brilliant blue eyes. I promise to respect you as a person, a partner, and an equal. There is little to say that you haven't already heard, and little to give that is not already freely given. Before you asked me, I was yours and I am devoted to you in every way. I marry you with no hesitation or doubt, and my commitment to you is absolute. There is no one else on this earth I would rather spend my life with, John. I am so lucky to have found you. "

Sherlock never tears his focus away from John, but he can still hear the distinct happy-sobs of Mike Stamford and Lestrade echoing in the audience, as well as the somewhat daintier sniffles and sighs from Janine and Molly.

Sounding a bit choked up himself, the officiator says, "You may now exchange the rings."

With a watery laugh, John slides his ring onto Sherlock's finger. "With this ring, I thee wed."

Sherlock smiles and does the same, his heart thudding in his chest like a drum. "With this ring, I thee wed."

The officiator glances between them with a warm smile and then looks out at the crowd. "I now pronounce you married. You may kiss your husband."

Sherlock doesn't have to be told twice. Overwhelmed by emotion and the sound of applause roaring in his ears, Sherlock leans forward and captures John's mouth with his own. He cups John's jaw, kissing John like he's oxygen, and John responds in kind, looping an arm around Sherlock's waist and pulling him even closer.

When John dips Sherlock and deepens the kiss, Janine stands up and wolf-whistles and many others follow, until the hall is ringing with the sound of cheers and joyful laughter.

"I love you," John whispers, their faces inches apart.

Sherlock grins and presses his forehead against John's. "I love you, too."

4.

The cab ride back to Baker Street is quiet. Sated and simultaneously exhausted by the day's events, John and Sherlock sit shoulder to shoulder in the backseat, shrouded in comfortable silence.

Sherlock watches street lamps blur past the cab's window, the smears of golden light stark against the blueish darkness of the night sky. Without saying anything, John places his hand on the space between them and Sherlock takes it, interlacing their fingers like a knot. Their rings glint in the dim light like stars.

Right now, it feels as if the world is bursting with potential. There was a time when the notion of love made his chest ache like a sore wound, but that was back when it served only as a cruel reminder of what he could never have. Now, he has the entire universe resting within his palms. Music seems to flow from his fingertips, joyful melodies sing in his veins, and love ballads seem to write themselves in the warm silence hanging in the air.

The car comes to a stop outside of Baker Street, and Sherlock looks back at John.

"Are you ready?" he asks.

There is a quote Sherlock stumbled upon several years ago in the paper, something about happiness being a journey rather than a destination. At the time, he'd dismissed it as yet another trite cliche and moved on. Now, however, he thinks he's beginning to understand. For his entire life, Sherlock has always sought happiness. When he was a child, he looked for it in imaginary friends and his boundless, brilliant imagination. As a teenager and young adult he was sure it resided at the bottom of a syringe, at the tip of a needle. And as an adult he thought he finally had it figured out, because certainly, happiness could only be found in the Work. Solving crimes, besting criminals, proving his genius to the world time and time again.

But he was wrong. Happiness did not come from any of those things, it came from John. And even though this journey that he has embarked on with John has been at times painful, heart-breaking, and tragic, it has all been completely necessary. His faked death, the years of pining, Mary's betrayal and subsequent demise, all lead up to where they are now: happily married and ready to begin a life together. The journey, Sherlock realizes, is what has brought him happiness. He and John have both grown over the past five years thanks to a string both good and bad events, and they wouldn't be the people they are today without it.

And even though they're married, their lives won't be perfect—John will still sometimes have nightmares about the war, or about Mary, or about those two terrible years apart, but that's okay, because Sherlock will be there to comfort him. And sometimes the scars on Sherlock's skin will transport him back to those terrible, dark nights spent dashing through the shadows and sinning beneath the moon, but that's okay too, because John will be there to hold his hand and kiss each of the scars until Sherlock can breathe again.

So when he asks John if he's ready, he's asking if John is ready to continue this journey with him, despite not knowing what the future holds. He's asking if John will take his hand and step forward into uncharted territory. Because as long as Sherlock has John by his side, he'll be able to brave the strange, terrifying unknown. The future is full of unmarked pages, chapters waiting to be written, and Sherlock wants to know if John is ready to pick up a pen and help him fill in those blanks.

John looks at him and smiles, his eyes as deep and endless as the sea. He tightens his grip on Sherlock's hand and pushes open the cab door.

"I'm ready."

A/N: This story was published on January 26th 2015 and is now being completed January 17th 2016. That's only a few days shy of exactly one year. Let that sink in. One year. For those of you who have been around for all 12 months, I commend you. It's because of your continued support that I was able to wring 40 chapters out of this story, and I couldn't be more thankful.

Even though this story has come to an end, I'll still be posting new stories regularly! Aside from In the Rose Gardens at Noon, which I plan on updating pretty regularly now, I have a fun, lighthearted multi-chap brewing (ft. platonic Janine/Sherlock and romantic John/Sherlock), as well as several AU one shots.

I plan on going back and editing Love Ballads (in fact I've already updated/fixed at least 10 chapters) to correct any grammar/continuity errors, so if you spot any mistakes, please let me know :) It's been so strange/awesome to see my own writing gradually mature over the course of a year. I'm incredibly proud of myself for finishing something this big, because I've always had issues with completing multi chapter stories. (*cough* Definitions *cough*)

Many thanks to my beta reader, resrie71, for offering some great advice and suggestions over the past several months. You're the best!

(For everyone on fanfic dot net: It's a million times easier for me to edit old chapters on Archive of Our Own (the format of the website is much more writer-friendly), so if you'd like to reread a tidier version of this story at some point, I suggest reading it there. Plus, I put a bunch of fluffy Johnlock fan vids in the Author's note of this chapter, so you can check those out as well:) My name on AO3 is siennna.)

You can find me on Tumblr at sienna-221B and on Instagram at just_art_love

You guys have managed to make this past year one of the best ones of my life. I love you all so much and I couldn't have asked for a better community to share this story with.

Thank you. :)