A/N: This, my fabulous friends and readers, is the end of 'Freak.' The last chapter. I so hope that you've enjoyed reading it. I've had a great time writing it and I've enjoyed writing it. I'm a little sad it's over, but now I'm on to other things. :)

If you're interested, you can find a soundtrack alone with wallpaper to go along with this fic over at my livejournal: shinkonokokoro. livejournal . com/66719. html

So thanks for reading and for all of your lovely comments and everything. I've really appreciated them. :)

Why didn't he just shoot him? John kept Moriarty firmly in focus. This was going badly. This wasn't right. There was something wrong here. John cursed under his breath.

Wait... What was he doing? This was bad. Moriarty was talking. And holy fuck that was a helicopter. He squeezed off a few shots as Moriarty took off running, cursed when he got too close to Sherlock and then out of sight. He scrambled up and half slid down the embankment to get a better shot, dropping the rifle and pulling his Browning loose.

His heart dropped to his stomach as he rounded the bend to see Sherlock running after Moriarty to the cliff-edge.

"Sherlock!" John bellowed, firing at Moriarty's back.

But Sherlock, stupid Sherlock was already jumping.

John couldn't breathe.

Moriarty's hand caught, but Sherlock's sudden weight tore him loose. And then they disappeared into the spray.

He sprinted to the edge. Fell to his knees. Nothing. He was only aware of his screaming when he couldn't anymore.

"John...?" Mycroft's voice came, soft enough that he almost didn't hear it over the roar of water.

"Mycroft! Thank fuck! Call rescue services! Call—Mycroft!" he snapped, scrambling to his feet. "What the fuck are you doing?" He waved his hands at the man, staring dazedly at the cliff edge. "Mycroft! We need to get to the bottom! Get your arse on the phone! He could... Let's get to the snow mobiles!" He cast one last look at the cliff, refusing to believe the worst before manhandling a stunned Mycroft to the machines.

Searching until dawn with floodlights and torches and aid that John had to call for himself yielded no results. Mycroft looked shell-shocked, sitting by an emergency vehicle, a hot Thermos in his hands and a dry blanket over his shoulders.

John forced his way in amongst the rescue workers who tried to avoid giving him pitying glances after he'd cussed a person out for offering condolences.

There were shouts further down suddenly, and John was there as soon as he was able.. They were pulling a body from the river. He swallowed his heart back to his abdominal cavity. "Oh God..." He inched forwards—not wanting to see— "Oh thank God. Moriarty. This is the other man. Dead?"

The person looked up at him, trying to look appropriately sad.

"Don't bother. He's a criminal mass-murderer. Find the... Find Sherlock!" He ducked back to Mycroft. "They found Moriarty. Dead. We'll have to track down Moran... Mycroft?"

"Yes. Yes..."

"Dammit! Pull yourself together!" John hissed, panic at Mycroft's disengagement. Made him jittery. "We'll find him."

"Reichenbach Falls. Total drop of 250 meters, flow reduced by a hydro-electric damn, funicular opened 1899, water—"

"Shut up! Shut up!" He downed some hot tea and then waded back into the water. There until his legs were numb, the Swiss rescue workers finally pulled John bodily from the water claiming the need for rest. He didn't remember fighting them until he was pushed down next to Mycroft, hot tea pushed into his hands a second time, and a blanket tucked around him.

"Where is he," he whispered hollowly.

"I didn't..." Mycroft shook his head, his last look frightening John more than anything else. "It wasn't supposed to go like this..."

"Of course it bloody wasn't!" John snapped. He stood. "Find. Moran. Destroy him." Pacing a few steps, John nibbled his lip as the people began to pack up. "What are you doing?"

"Sir, we're very sorry for your loss—"

John punched him.

Another worker rushed over. "Sir! You can't—Jesus." He looked to Mycroft. "Take him home. We've looked for hours and have had no sign of your friend."

"My brother. My baby brother."

The man's face shifted into something like sympathy. "I'm sorry. But we can't spend anymore time. Get your friend home—"

"A hotel," John said numbly.

"The hotel. We'll ask for a report later." He turned, leading the bruising worker away.

"John," Mycroft said quietly. "Let's go."

He didn't remember the trip back, shaking with silent sobs, cursing Sherlock for his impulsiveness. He stood, too tired to move at the entrance gate of the hotel. Mycroft hovered at his shoulder. "This..." He shook his head. "There's nothing left."

"Moran. I have to finish Moran."

"Let's just get some sleep for now," he said, making one foot go before the other. He grabbed Mycroft by the elbow, the girl behind the desk giving them a strange look. The lift took them up to their floor. John left Mycroft at his door, padding down to his and Sher—his room, feet squelching in his soaked shoes. Stopping, hand on the knob, he frowned. Pushed the unlocked door open. Lifted his Browning and releasing the safety. Inching inside, he flicked the light and almost dropped the gun.

Sherlock. Laid out haphazardly on the bed. Pale and soaked through.

"Oh God." Then he did drop the Browning, rushing to the bed for Sherlock's pulse. "Fuck." He was alive. He was alive. Alive. His hands shook as he started peeling off the sopping coat. "Mycroft!" he screamed. Sherlock twitched. "Bloody hell, you daft bastard," he said viciously, carefully removing the coat. "Twice now. You can't fucking do this! I—MYCROFT!" He sucked in air at the unnatural angle of his arm.

"Oh God..." Mycroft moaned from somewhere behind him.

"He's alive! Now call a fucking ambulance and move my gun!" He snapped, thrashing through drawers for a pair of scissors. "Now! He needs an ambulance. He's out, arm broken, probable concussion, and hell if I know the state of his ribs!"

"Yes, I need an ambulance. Room 317. Immediately." He hung up and then brought scissors to John.

"Sorry," he said, not really, as he cut Sherlock's coat off. "Go get the dry towels. I don't—I shouldn't move him." He growled in frustration. "Fuck." Pulling the wet ruined clothes away, John tucked the offered towels around him, rubbing the chance of warmth into Sherlock. Sherlock. Alive. Alive but too pale and sunken looking with his damp curls plastered to his face. "Come on, Sherlock. Wake up please." His heart hammered through his head. Sherlock's pulse still felt weak.

"How is he?" Mycroft asked as the wail of an emergency vehicle could be heard.

"Alive." Mycroft edged into his vision, face tight as he looked down at his brother.

"Good. Good..." Then stepped out of the way as the thunder of feet could be heard coming down the hall.

In a blur of efficiency, Sherlock was bundled onto a stretcher and into the ambulance, Mycroft and John smooshed into the back for the ride to the hospital.

"John," Sherlock rasped, twitching slightly.

"Here. I'm here. Don't worry. You're in the ambulance. You're safe. Don't thrash about. Yeah. There you go."

"Came back..."

"I know you did. Good job, Sherlock. Except you shouldn't have dived into a waterfall in the first place," he said softly, gripping his hand, hot and worried.

"Had to...win..." he broke off coughing, the noise ending in a pitiful sort of moan.

"No more cliff-diving for you," John murmured, reaching up to smooth his hair.

"Alright, Mr. Holmes. We're at the hospital. Mr.'s Watson and Holmes, please make your way to the waiting room to fill out paperwork while we get him checked out.

John nodded and guided Mycroft in until the man shook him off with a half-heated glare. John found a chair and sat.

Mycroft's hand flew across the clipboard and then the keyboard of his phone when he'd finished. His brow was scrunched downwards in a rare display of upset and concentration.

They waited.

Pacing until Mycroft snapped at him, he settled for fidgeting in his chair restlessly, worry-fuelled now instead of adrenaline or desperation. He was half out of his seat every time hospital staff rounded the corner and came into view.

Mycroft's sigh made him jump, and John's gaze followed him to the desk. One short murmured conversation and Mycroft was beckoning John over. "Were going in to see him. They've just finished the x-rays. They're not finished over all, but I've convinced them. Not to mention, John, that your restlessness is driving me mad. He'll be fine."

"Of course he'll be fine!" The contrary hadn't even crossed his mind. "I just... I need to see him."

Mycroft's hand on his shoulder guided him through the halls. They paused, however, just at the edge of the window. Sherlock was smothered in blankets, bandaged and small-looking again.

The scene made John's heart lurch. It wasn't, of course, as bad as the last time they'd found Sherlock in a hospital. And yet...

Sherlock spotted them and gave a weak wave of his hand.

John rushed to his side.

"I'm fine, John," he murmured tiredly.

"Your definition of 'fine' needs a readjustment."

"Freaked out, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotionally unstable," Sherlock snipped back, lips twitching. "I'm always Fine."

John could feel his relief at the joke, but it didn't transfer to his face where his jaw felt tight, brow stiff. "We thought you died, Sherlock."

The other man's eyes fluttered. "I thought you'd come back to the inn sooner."

"We were looking for you!" His voice was going shrill. He didn't care.

"Looked longer for what I accounted..."

"We found Moriarty's body," Mycroft interjected.

Sherlock's eyes opened narrowly. "Good."

"Bastard's dead," John said. He watched Sherlock relax minutely. "It's over."

"'Body' does usually imply a corpse, John."

"Once I eliminate Moran."

They both looked at Mycroft. He shrugged.

"This is my part. Sherlock is clearly in no state to go anywhere, and I suspect John is ready to willingly play nursemaid."

Sherlock arched a brow. "Mycroft's just feeling useless and guilty. Even if I'm sure John would enjoy playing nursemaid."

"Sherlock..." John said lowly.

Tossing his head gently, Sherlock snorted, winced, broke off coughing until he moaned and went limp into the pillows.

John could only hover uselessly, unsure of where to place hands, until he finally settled for folding one of Sherlock's within his.

"I'm not dying," he croaked, turning a fond glance upon John. "That isn't to say that I would mind John playing nursemaid."

Mycroft made a noise behind him. "Very well then. That is settled."

"How long before I can go home?" Sherlock asked, eyelids fluttering.

"You should rest," John said immediately. "You'll need to stay at least a week, what with your broken ribs, concussion, broken arm, and hypothermia. You also resprained your ankle, you berk. You can't be comfortably moved. I'll try to make sure you've got something to do so you're not too bored. Don't sulk."

"If I have to be bored, I would hope to do it in the comfort of my own home," he groused. "Don't stay all the time, John. You've not seen Switzerland."

"I've seen enough," he replied darkly.

"Come on. Mycroft's footing the bill. See what they have to offer. I'll be fine here."

John felt his brows shoot up. "Are you—"

"Yes. It's fine. I'll stay put and not aggravate the hospital staff."

Eyeing Mycroft, John kept his mouth shut lest Sherlock change his mind. He'd take small graces where he could get them.

"Go ahead and go back to the inn. Get some rest," Sherlock ordered weakly.

Surprised for the second time in as many minutes, John leaned back.

Sherlock squeezed his hand and then nodded. "Go on. You're both exhausted."

"You're sure?"

"John. Moriarty is dead. I'm tired. You're tired. Go get rest."

Mycroft nodded and moved to the door, waiting for John. "I'll call a taxi."

John nodded absently, waiting for the clack of shoes to fade. "You're sure, Sherlock?"

Sherlock smiled. "John. I'm trying to be a responsible adult. Go. Home."

Laughing softly, he stood and bent over to kiss his temple. "Fine. I'll go back to the inn. I just wanted to be sure. "

"I can see that. I will text you if I need anything. I'm...mostly comfortable, I feel safe, and very tired. Diving off a waterfall is exhausting work."

"You must have hit your head harder than we thought if you're cracking jokes."

"I will see you later, John. Get some rest so you can take care of me."

"You're a complete idiot, you know that?"

Sherlock blinked blearily at him.

"You can't..." He swallowed. "You can't do that, Sherlock. Do you know... Sherlock, my heart when I saw you go down..." He shook his head and ignored the tightness in his chest. Jerked at Sherlock's hand on his.

"I am sorry, John. I had to... I had to end it. You understand."

"I do," he said finally, softly. "But please..."

"There should not be a next time, John. But I will do my utmost to not make you worry."

Looking around quickly, John dipped his head for a parting kiss. "That's the best I'll get."

"Go get some rest," Sherlock said again, lips tilted up.

He smiled and then joined Mycroft in the taxi for the ride back to the inn. He stumbled upstairs, pausing in the doorway. Housekeeping had changed the sheets. He vaguely hoped they'd be able to get the blood out.

Then he was suddenly furious.

Damn you, Sherlock for being reckless and nearly dying.

Damn you, Moriarty for being a crazy, miserable, fucked up, sorry son of a bitch. For making Sherlock desperate. For dragging him down—feeling the need to jump into a waterfall—for chasing—for needing to end it—for wanting something he couldn't ever have—for being a manipulative bloody arse—for being hard to fine—for—"Fuck."

He shut the door and leaned back against it, head dipping to his chest before he stripped, grabbed a blanket, and slept on the sofa.

John did end up seeing some sights. But he hovered at the back of the group, hands stuffed in his pockets, chin tucked into his scarf.

Mostly, he sat by Sherlock's bedside. Talking. Watching him sleep. Grateful he was alive.

"You're amazing, you know that," John blurted in the middle of one of Sherlock's diatribes on...something.

The man blinked at him in surprise. "John?"

"You utterly are," he said, awe tingeing his voice. "How man men jump into a waterfall and come out alive?"

"I had to get back to you," Sherlock said with a small furrow between his brows.

He sucked in air, felt his eyes burn. "Sherlock Holmes."

"John...?"

Bending quickly, he kissed Sherlock until the heart monitor beeped more quickly, Sherlock groaned, and he pushed him off.

"We...can't..." he murmured breathlessly. "Not here... You'll make... nurses. They'll come... John..."

John sighed and fell back into his chair. "I love you."

The small fond smile that John had come to recognise as his spread across Sherlock's lips. "I do love you, John."

"We can take you back home tomorrow."

"I look forward to it."

John watched Sherlock sigh, some of the tension draining, as soon as they entered 221B. Mrs. Hudson was all aflutter, bringing up extra casserole and muffins and tea. As soon as Sherlock was settled on the sofa, John draped a blanket over him. People fussed, Mycroft stood in the background like an unexpected wallflower, and even Lestrade dropped by.

But when they'd all left, John collapsed next to Sherlock who managed to lift his lips in a tired smile. "When I'm able, I fully expect us to...how do they say...christen my bed."

John was too tired to blush or shake his head, so he settled for a sigh and shifted, pulling Sherlock down on his chest. "Come on then. Let's settle for napping on the sofa yet, yeah?"

Stretching his legs up onto the arm of the sofa, Sherlock made a contented noise and let his head fall onto John's shoulder. "I won't crush your bad shoulder lying here all night?"

"It'll be fine," John said, linking his hands on Sherlock's belly. "I can't wait to christen your bed. However, I want your ribs fully healed."

"Of course, Doctor Watson," Sherlock purred.

"You'll go back to working with Lestrade?"

"I think I should."

"Should?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I dunno. Why wouldn't you."

Sherlock huffed. "It will give me something to do when it's not you."

"Thank you," he said dryly. "That's... that's lovely, Sherlock."

"I enjoyed it very much, you know. I don't think I told you. I know you were insecure about it."

John groaned. "Can we please stop talking about this right now? Especially considering we can't exactly do much about it when you're injured?"

Sherlock chuckled, shuffling a little on top of John. "As you wish."

Leaning his head back against the arm, John pulled the throw around them and reached up to flick off the lamp. "Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night, John."

It was some time later when they'd just returned, sweaty and adrenaline-amped from helping Lestrade with a case that the moment was right. John eyed Sherlock with a breathless smile and Sherlock tilted his head and canted his hip against the door. They left a trail of clothes to Sherlock's bedroom until they were sweaty and exhausted and sated, and Sherlock realised that there might be some merit in the clichéd adage: Home is where the heart is.