The hot wind stung as it swept up sand and got into John's exposed wounds. He had to patrol the area before he could give the all-clear and let his men come through. He could hear Milo asking him questions on the intercom, but John silenced it. He held his gun aloft and scanned the area. It would be perfect for a guerilla attack.

John checked around the skeletons of these buildings, coming to the final one. Standing in the middle was a man with bombs strapped to his chest. His back was to John. John demanded that he turn around and show himself. The man put his hands up and turned slowly around.

It was Sherlock, his eyes blazing with regret and tears. He had the switch in his hand, his thumb hovering over a button. John lowered his gun and tried to reason with Sherlock, but Sherlock couldn't hear him through all of his layers of protective gear. Sherlock only said two words before the world ripped itself apart.

"John. Run."

John watched in absolute horror as Sherlock was ripped apart, blood splattering his clothes, the air smoky. Though he was now certainly dead, Sherlock's blood-curdling shrieks rang throughout the entire desert. The rest of his men came in after him and one by one they all exploded. Bombs everywhere, they were all bombs. No one was safe. Everyone was a potential bomb. He tried to get away, he tried to run or hide but he was trapped by the noises, the inhuman gurgling of Sherlock choking on his own blood mixed with his shrieking pain, John crying out for help, for someone to help him. He cried for Sherlock to stop screaming. He heard a violin start to play… softly at first until it built up a calm inside John. The violin was sweet and sad and it quieted the screams and the world on fire. It was soon the only thing that John could hear and he laid himself down to rest.

John's eyes fluttered open gently. They were caked with dried tears. He sighed and threw his head back, trying to hold back his tears again. These nightmares. They were getting worse. He tried to control himself, he hated waking Sherlock up in the middle of the night like this with his thrashing and his crying. He looked to the foot of the bed and Sherlock stood there with his violin between his chin and his shoulders, his eyes closed, pulling out a melody for John. John could hear it. Sherlock was begging John to feel happier, he wanted nothing but John to have a peaceful sleep and he worried about him. John tried to smile but just fell back down on the bed and curled up. He was too frightened to go back to sleep, though Sherlock's melody was helping to calm his racing heart. The tune ended on a low note and Sherlock placed his violin down on the chair in the corner of the room.

They had moved into 221B Baker street about two months ago and John couldn't ask for a better home. It had already started to feel like home and he and Sherlock put their own touches on it. Mrs. Hudson was the sweetest woman and often came up from time to time to have a chat. John had thought that Sherlock would just brush her off as no one but he seemed to genuinely enjoy her company and he almost treated her like family. The first time that John had a nightmare, she came running up the stairs, genuinely concerned for his health. She made him tea and had a long chat about how she used to have nightmares that of her husband coming back to hurt her. John appreciated her so much more than she may even understand. Every now and again when John had sincerely terrible nightmares, she would come up the stairs and wordlessly make him a cup of tea. This place was home.

Sherlock crawled into bed with John, and forced him to sit up. Neither of them said anything. Sherlock took John's wrists, and John couldn't look him in the eye. Sherlock stared at him through his eyelashes until John turned his head. The moment that John caught his eyes, he would usually shed a tear or two. John hated his weakness. John hated these dreams. The explosions in Afghanistan and the explosions in the Ink factory melted together in a hellish perversion of a nightmare. He had seen Afghanistan and London as completely different universes, but when the bombs started going off here, where Sherlock was…. The dreams wouldn't let him go now. They were relentless.

Sherlock would stare at John in the eye for several long minutes as John would cry as silently as possible. This procedure sometimes ended up with John bawling into Sherlock's shoulder and grabbing onto him desperately. Tonight, John shed a couple of silent tears and closed his eyes. Sherlock would kiss him on the forehead, cheeks, nose and lips. He would hold John's head steady in his hands until John was done crying completely and stand up to retrieve his violin.

And then Sherlock would play until John fell asleep again.

John sat on the chair facing the window. Rain pattered on the street below. Sherlock stared out of the window listlessly plucking his violin strings. He thumbed a letter absentmindedly. Irene had been so kind as to send them a letter. John had been relieved that Milo had been innocent all this time, but Sherlock had been so upset that he now refused to call Irene by her name. She was now simply 'That Woman' or 'The Woman'. John imagined that Sherlock was simply in shock that there was someone else out there that was able to fool him.

The letter read:

Dear Sherlock and John,

It was me the whole time. Oops. I figured that I should leave before you find me out using your own resources. I thought that you had started to suspect me but it turns out that you still imagined Milo to be the traitor. Moriarty went through a lot of trouble to make you suspect Milo. Though, seriously Sherlock? Falling for that bait? It was too easy.

Moriarty approached me a month before your arrival at the rehab. He paid me an awful lot of money. I agreed and you never suspected a thing. I was worried that you would catch on during the early stages, but you were too far down in your cravings that you never noticed my slip-ups. I'm grateful for it.

After you got John back, that's when he really activated me. He would call me and ask me if I could get away. Of course I could get away, it was so easy to now you were distracted with John. I was completely disregarded even though I shared a hotel room with you. He told me exactly what I should do to get the information from you and I did just that. You never noticed. I got myself a girlfriend so you could explain away my absence. Poor old Molly Hooper is such a lovely girl. I'm sorry that I used her in that way. If you could explain to her why I've left so suddenly, that would be kind of you.

I figured that Sebastian would make a good ally. I retrieved him using the last of my contacts in the prison. We're both gone. Don't expect this letter to tell you my location. I emailed it to one of my friends in America and had her mail it to you. Of course, there wouldn't really be any need to track me down, would there? What would you do with me? Wag your finger?

To be entirely honest… not all of it was a lie. I meant what I said about you two. Your love is beautiful. I reasoned Sebastian out of killing John. Moriarty never asked about his plane. I don't know if I would be able to tell him the truth anyway. I was really interested in meeting John. I'm glad that I did meet you, John. After seeing you two together… it was almost impossible to want to see you split.

Almost. There is always a price.

Perhaps we'll meet again, Sherlock. Perhaps we'll cross paths in the future. Until then, my dearest roommate.

Irene Adler

When Sherlock read the letter first, John could see a mixture of anger and admiration flicker through his expressions before he put it down and walked away. Now he won't mention the contents of the letter, but he compulsively folded and unfolded it, never looking at the words on the paper. John stared at Sherlock for a while.

"What are we supposed to do now?" John asked quietly. Sherlock turned towards him. He placed the letter down on the table next to him. Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly.

"We wait." Sherlock continued plucking the strings. "I hit him pretty hard. It'll be years before he recovers from my blow. We wait for him to rise again. And then I'll take him down. Permanently." Sherlock stated as though it was a fact. Thunder grumbled in the distance and Sherlock brought his violin to his chin.

"Wait? Sherlock, we're going to wait for him?"

"I'm certain that we can get in all sorts of trouble in the meantime." Sherlock smiled. He raised his bow and started playing sweet music. This, at least, was true. Lestrade had called them every other day to consult with Sherlock on certain cases. He had helped willingly, and with great enthusiasm. He left occasionally, sometimes with John. Sometimes he left John at home by himself. John was nearly over his limp, but he still had some difficulty with running. He loved accompanying Sherlock on cases, so he would go as often as he could, but sometimes he would have to rest. He looked at Sherlock, so invested in the music, complementing it to the low rumbles of thunder.

John stood with great difficulty and limped to the nearest window. The rain was falling in spots. Thunder rumbled in the distance. John swallowed as his heart started to race. Sherlock's music was a beautiful background, but the storm that was coming looked like it was going to be incredibly nasty.

When he was a kid, John used to think that the lightning and the thunder were fighting. The rain was the result of their fight, the produce of their anger. In the end, neither Lighting nor Thunder could win, and all that was left was the rain, drowning the plants and drenching the town. All that was left was the damage that their fight caused.

The sky above them now was overcast and harmless, but the black clouds in the distance were blowing towards the city. John could hear the impending storm, its terrible thunder muffled from the distance. He could see lighting strike outside the city. He knew that it would be here in a few hours and dump buckets of water and blow around their flat. Now, the rain was soft and gentle, but it was still rain. Now, the winds were whispers, but soon they would be screams.

He knew that the approaching storm was inevitable and that it would be devastating, but for now they were safe. For now they were together.

Sherlock hung up the phone. John had barely noticed Sherlock talking. Sherlock smirked at him.

"That was Lestrade." He snatched up his jacket and scarf. "You know those serial suicides? There's been a fourth. And now…" He turned up his collar, positively beaming. "… there's a note."

The End

Woah, I don't know what to do now that I've finished this story I've spent a good portion of three months putting it all together

I wanted to leave it open-ended like that. I sort of wanted to end this story where the canon story began. John with a limp, having nightmares. Sherlock consulting with Lestrade over cases. Moriarty not being an immediate threat. Mrs. Hudson and her cuteness. Also how'd you like that nice little metaphor I ended with? John/Metaphors otp. Well for this story at least. I've had that one in mind for a while anyway, whatever.

This is probably one of the first times I've been consistent with simultaneously posting chapters and writing this story. I finished writing it on the 23rd of February. I would like to pat myself on the back for actually finishing a story. Thank you all so much for reading Together, I really do hope that you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!