His shoulder is stiff. It usually is first thing in the morning. Well, it is these days. Typically, he would sit upright, grab hold of his shoulder, and twist it in its socket. It would loosen up the muscles enough to ease the stiffness just enough, until the rest of the days activities properly stretched it. This morning, he doesn't move. He doesn't even open his eyes when he awakens. He can feel the weight of Sherlock's head resting between his shoulder blades, the press of his body half laying across his back. Sherlock's fingertips move very gently, gliding over the puckered skin around the scar on his shoulder. "It's been said that being shot feels like burning." Sherlock's voice says quietly. John smiles. Of course he's realized John's awoken. "As I've never been shot, I'm unsure such claims are factual."

"They are." John replies, voice gruff with sleep.

"I suppose the claims do have fact to them. Any metal object coming into contact with heat is sure to burn human skin. A metal object being forced quickly through the air via ignition. It's logical." Sherlock mutters, circling the wound. "Not to mention the rate at which said object moves through the air. The friction alone would ignite some heat." he continues in the same mumble. John knows he's talking to himself, cataloging the information properly in his head. They sit in silence once again. John feels Sherlock's leg shift in the small space between his. John rests his foot upon Sherlock's ankle.

"You don't want to be shot." John says finally. He knows Sherlock is considering it, as an experiment, to evaluate the feeling. He can feel Sherlock's jaw clench against his skin. "It's no treat."

"I never thought it would be."

"I understand that you wouldn't think that, but I know the way your brain works, Sherlock."

"Do you?"

"You're wondering which place would cause the least permanent damage but maximize the potential feeling."

Sherlock is silent. "Perhaps you do." he says after a moment. John chuckles quietly, shifting slightly. Sherlock moves as well, but only slightly. He moves his head to John's free shoulder, dragging his hand down to John's ribs and giving him a tight squeeze. "You're being a bit obvious." John tells him, face-to-face and touching at nose. Sherlock rolls his eyes, closing the small gap between their lips. "And now you realize the plight of my everyday existence. Dreadfully dull when people are so predictable, wouldn't you agree?" he murmurs.

"Could think of worse things." John claims.

"As in?"

"Well," he says, resting his forehead against Sherlock's. "Could be in love with a madman for a decade without ever seeing him."

Sherlock smirks. "Hardly the same scenario."

"Still worse than being bored by predictability."

"Perhaps." Sherlock replies simply. He lifts himself minutely, sliding himself to lay across John's back. "And if I'm being earnest, I suppose predictability has its advantages as well." Sherlock murmurs into John's neck.

John smirks, shutting his eyes as Sherlock begins brushing his lips over John's skin. He feels Sherlock's hands run down both sides of his body, then make their way back up, curling around his biceps. "Does it?" he asks, suppressing the small chill that threatens to move him as Sherlock places an open-mouthed kiss between his shoulder blades. Sherlock hums against his skin, an affirmative noise, as he details John's back with his mouth. "It does. For example, it is predictable that when I stroke you here—" Sherlock's hand slides down John's side once again, nothing but gentle swipes of his fingertips. He delicately prods his fingers beneath John, running a finger over his hip. John squirms. "—you are sure to have a positive reaction."

John huffs a quiet laugh. "That is quite predictable." he murmurs. "Though I think I need more examples."

"Oh, I have many." Sherlock's breath tickles John's spine.

"Do tell."

"It is also quite predictable that if I—" Here, John feels the tip of Sherlock's tongue at the small of his back. He drags it up the length of John's spine, leading what seems to be a slow-rolling wave of chills. At the very top of John's back, at the base of his neck, Sherlock gives another warm, wet kiss. "—The probability of you becoming semi-erect is very high." he murmurs into the back of John's ear. A shiver shoots through John, one that he can't fully conceal. Even after all this time, the effect Sherlock's voice has on him is stupendous. It seems to have only gotten more enticing with age. John takes a deep breath, allowing himself to fall into the sensations of Sherlock's mouth, which is trailing its way downward once again.

"You must get bored of me." John says, "I mean really, you read me like a book."

"You are a book I never tire of." Sherlock breathes into the small of his back.

He feels Sherlock's hands grab hold of him once again, wrapping his fingers around the shape of John's body. He slides them up to John's ribs, and his body is flat against John's a moment later. "I can also predict that by now, you've amassed enough of an erection that laying upon it must be quite uncomfortable." he mumbles against John's ear.

John shifts slightly and hums an affirmative sound.

Sherlock gives his ear an affectionate nip. "Is there anything I can do to assist you, Doctor?" he asks from somewhere quite low in his throat.

John's eyebrows raise in amusement. "Oh, there's many things I think you can assist me with, nurse." he says with a cheeky smile. Sherlock chuckles quietly, sliding from John's body to the mattress once again. "Do tell." he prompts, assisting John as he makes to lay on his back. John smirks as Sherlock once again stretches over him, resting his thigh between John's legs. "I may be having an issue in my pelvic region." he says lightly, "Need you to take a look for me."

"Just a look?" Sherlock asks, quirking an eyebrow.

"May require a full exam. At your discretion." John says in mock seriousness, face pulling into professional concern.

Sherlock returns the look. He gives a quick, sturdy nod as he begins moving down John's body, peppering it with gentle brushes of his lips. As he reaches John's hips, his eyebrows lift quickly and he pulls the bedclothes over his head. John can't help the small smile that cracks over his face. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Sherlock nudges himself between John's legs. He can feel Sherlock's breath against his pelvis, hot and humid and enticing. He feels Sherlock's fingers wrap around him slowly, and he hisses at the sensation.

"Seems to be quite an issue." Sherlock's voice is muffled by the cover. John smiles, shifting his body slightly. "I trust you can handle it." he replies, sliding his hands beneath his pillow. He shuts his eyes, a happy, lazy smile making an appearance over his lips. He feels Sherlock's tongue against him and his breath catches in his chest.

Sherlock's phone rings.

John's jaw clenches and he glances at it quickly, but Sherlock's voice rings clear, "Ignore it." he demands. John glances at the bump in the bedclothes, the one that is Sherlock's head, and gives a one-shouldered shrug. He shuts his eyes once again.

The moment the phone stops ringing, it begins once again.

"Maybe it's important." John suggests, glancing at the phone once again. He makes to shift enough to snatch it from the bedside table, but Sherlock's hands press quickly into his hips and trap him in his place. He appears momentarily from beneath the blanket, "Don't touch it."

"But—"

"No."

"As you wish."

Sherlock gives a single nod, flipping the bedclothes back over his head, and grabs him once again. John takes a deep breath as he feels Sherlock's lips slide around him. He's just about ready to lose himself in the sensations when Sherlock's phone springs to life once again. John huffs an agitated breath. "I'm looking at who it is." He informs Sherlock. He can feel Sherlock about to make some kind of protest, but he squeezes his knees into Sherlock's sides, hard enough to stop him momentarily while John reaches and snatches the phone up.

"It's Lestrade."

"Oh, bloody Hell." Sherlock's voice is full of irritation as he flips the covers back once again. He snatches the phone from John's grip and answers it with a harsh, "What."

John watches him. Sherlock takes a moment to listen. His face wears the agitation he's obviously feeling, though Lestrade is obviously not there to witness it. "Yes fine, I need a couple hours." Sherlock says shortly. John can hear Lestrade's tinny voice on the other end. "Because I'm busy, Detective Inspector."

John quirks an eyebrow.

"In the middle of a very important exam."

John has to suppress his giggles.

"John has a very serious issue that I'm currently handling. If you don't allow me to see to it immediately, I'll be forced to have you to listen to the healing process. Two hours." He says, voice sharp and serious. John's face contorts in confusion. Sherlock ends the call promptly after that and chucks the phone to the side. "Sherlock, you—"

"He won't be interrupting for at least two hours." He cuts John short, flashing a quick, smug smile as he makes his way back down and throwing the covers over himself once again.

"You're a bad, bad man." John mutters as he feels Sherlock's mouth against his inner thigh.

"And you are a willing one." Sherlock's words vibrate against John's skin.

"Guilty as charged." John says, exhaling a deep, satisfied breath and shutting his eyes.

John can hear the sound of the violin playing from the bottom of the stairwell.

Well, he says playing.

It's more like a rough scratching. A dissonant scratching against the strings. And loud, at that. It's harboring frustration behind it. The sound carries Sherlock's agitation all the way down the stairwell and into John's ears. John can't for the life of him think of a reason Sherlock might be that agitated. The case he'd been on had been—from what John had gathered—relatively easy. Surely something couldn't have gone wrong in the half hour he'd gone to Tesco's?

As he makes his way up the stairs (limp long gone, thanks to Sherlock's consistent doses of adrenaline via heart-racing cases or various other activities) he hears a voice. It's fairly quiet beneath the scratching of the violin, but John can tell it's male and quite lofty. He furrows his eyebrows, making his way into the flat through the kitchen door to set down the bags.

Sherlock's turned to the window, violin poised at his cheek. He stops the bow mid-stroke and takes a deep, visible breath. There's an older man sitting in John's armchair. "John," he hears Sherlock say, "Your wish has been granted."

John makes his way into the sitting room, talking slow steps to reveal the face of the man sitting in the chair. He's dressed in a three piece suit. Dark hair, light eyes. He's fairly thin and seems to be miles of limbs, ones that he's appropriated quite eloquently. John looks to Sherlock. "My wish?"

"Do forgive my brother's incorrigible behaviour," the man says, glancing at Sherlock's back slowly before looking to John. "He seems to be under the impression I've come to admonish him."

"You came to nose about. No need to play daft. You're a horrid actor."

"Your brother?" John says, looking to Sherlock's back. Sherlock shoots him a quick glance and gives a single nod. "This is Mycroft?" he says, looking to the man in the chair. John is shocked. Mycroft is nothing as he imagined. Though, in all fairness, he hadn't much time to imagine Mycroft. Sherlock was always quick to eliminate the thought process. Mycroft turns back to Sherlock as though John hadn't spoken."Now Sherlock, had you any inclination to return any of my phone calls, perhaps I wouldn't have to come unannounced." Mycroft replies silkily, "You know I do so worry about you."

"You haven't a need."

John watches their exchange as one might a golf match. His eyes dart from Holmes to Holmes, unsure how to approach either. He clears his throat, and both Holmes' turn to look at him. "Does... anyone fancy a cuppa?" he asks awkwardly. He's not entirely sure how to proceed.

"Mycroft was just leaving." Sherlock says, voice cool. He settles his violin and bow into his seat and stares imploringly to his brother. Mycroft has a strange smile sitting on his lips. He stands, chin lifted. He looks down his nose to Sherlock and quirks an eyebrow, then looks to John. "It's been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Watson." Mycroft says. John isn't quite sure if he's serious. He decides to proceed with caution. "Likewise." he says, bringing a small smile to his lips.

Mycroft doesn't say anything more. He flashes a sardonic smile to Sherlock, then politely strides from the room and makes his way from the flat. Sherlock visibly relaxes, shaking his head slightly as he finally strides to meet John. "So that's the infamous." John says, catching Sherlock in his arms. Sherlock sighs, resting his chin on top of John's head and wrapping his arms around his neck. "Fat git." he mutters.

"He doesn't seem all that bad."

He can feel Sherlock sneer at the words, and so he presses a gentle, hopefully soothing kiss to his throat. "He only came about to get a glimpse of you in person. As though you're some sort of sideshow." Sherlock grumbles. John frowns. "In person?"

"Mycroft, as I've explained, has access to any information he deems necessary. Which is, more often than I care to think about, pertaining to my personal life." Sherlock says through a sigh. John purses his lips. "He's got all my information, then." John says after a moment.

"And more, I'm sure."

"Well, that's not completely unnerving." John mutters. Sherlock heaves yet another sigh and squeezes John tighter. "Don't pay any attention to him." Sherlock assures. He begins pushing John, forcing him to waunder backward. John's face is still pressed into Sherlock's throat. He allows Sherlock to lead him. He seems to know where they're heading."Allow me to make up for my brother's unwanted appearance." Sherlock says, dropping his voice to the low purr that hits John in just the right ways.

John shuts his eyes, smiling as he brushes open mouth kisses to Sherlock's Adam's apple. "I guess I can allow it." he says, locking his arms tighter. "Depending on what you've got in mind."

"I seem to recall you having a fondness for any form of sexual debauchery." Sherlock murmurs. John feels himself hit a solid wall that seems to ricochet away from him. Ah. The door. John hums into his neck, giving him a small nibble. "I think I might just be fond of you saying the word debauchery." he confesses. "Go on, say it again." John whispers. Sherlock gives a low chuckle. "Debauchery." he growls. Oh. John had only been half-joking, but with Sherlock's snarl, it does seem to have an...interesting effect on his body.

"Quite like that. May have to work it into everyday speech."

"As you wish."

They pause for just a moment, crushing their lips against one another. Their lips move in aggressive motions, tongues sliding against one another, punctuated with nips and nibbles. John finally feels the back of his knees hit the mattress and he allows himself to tumble backward. He keeps his hold on Sherlock, bringing him down against him quite forcefully. They don't waste much time in stripping one another, rushing through buttons and shoelaces and zippers with expertise. Sherlock has a way of being in many places at once, John has always felt. He seems to feel Sherlock's nimble fingers all over him— pressing at his jaw and sliding over his ribs and grabbing at his hips and stroking him to full arousal.

John runs his hands over Sherlock's back, embedding his purposely-trimmed-short nails gently into his skin as he slides them downward. Sherlock's back arches beneath the scratches, rolling in a long wave against John's body. The collision of their hips sends a welcomed chill through both of them.

"I'm allowing you cart blanche." Sherlock murmurs into John's neck. "To make up for such a scarring meeting."

"Is that right?"

"My body is yours to handle as you wish."

John grabs hold of Sherlock at the ribs and, with a grace mastered with much practice, flips him to his back. He slots himself against his body and gives him a quick, deep kiss. "All this freedom. Don't even know where to start." he mutters against Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock scoffs, lips pulling into John's favorite smirk. "I have a few ideas. Admittedly, most of them involve skipping a rather vast amount of foreplay and having you crudely take me in a slew of different positions." he growls, "Though I suppose if you'd prefer something a bit torturous, you are entitled to such."

Sherlock has the ability to throw John back into his twenties, where his libido seems to be manic and hungry and he realizes quite suddenly that Sherlock's idea is much, much better than anything he could possibly think of. He sits upright, giving Sherlock's thighs a couple playful taps as he commands, "On your belly."

Sherlock does as commanded and does so rather quickly. He scoots himself up onto the bed and centers himself, then flops stomach down into the mattress. John gives a nod of approval, clambering over the mattress and slotting his body over Sherlock's. "You've got... a superb arse. Have I ever told you?" he murmurs the back of Sherlock's ear. He's attempting to be smooth, reaching blindly toward the bedside drawer to pull their provisions from it. He watches Sherlock's lips pull into a smirk. "I don't recall it ever being mentioned verbally. I've always run with the assumption you were fond of it, however, as you do take such care of it." he replies quietly.

"It's one of my favorite aspects of you." John presses his lips into the crook of Sherlock's neck as he finally snags his hands on the necessary items. Sherlock makes an affirmative noise. "What are the others?" he asks offhandedly.

"I've a list."

"Feel free to divulge."

"May inflate your ego."

"As though my ego could become any larger than it already is."

John laughs, dragging his lips over the base of Sherlock's neck. "Your hips." John begins, allowing his free hand to slide beneath Sherlock's lean frame and touch the familiar bone. "Your lips. Your eyes. Your shoulder blades. Your ribs." he lists off as he slides hot, wet kisses down Sherlock's back. "Your fingers. Your calves. Every bit of your skin." he continues.

"Sounds like a rather detailed way to say that you favor every aspect of me." Sherlock murmurs.

"Your bellybutton. Your neck."

"Oh I'm sorry, did I interrupt?"

"Your ears. Your hair. Your cheekbones. Your thighs."

"You know, you've not said anything about my—"

"Your cock."

"Ah, there it is. Rather far down on the list, I fear."

John smirks as he sits himself upright. He gives Sherlock's arse a quick smack, to which Sherlock's body seems to jump minutely. "Oh, I didn't mention that, did I?" John says, uncapping the bottle and pouring a liberal amount of the lubricant into his hand. "Wasn't in order. Just whichever bits came to me first." He rubs his hands together, slathering it properly over and between his fingers. Sherlock chuckles quietly. "And I suppose you won't be indulging me in the proper order of your list."

"Definitely not. Changes too frequently to tell." He says simply. He reaches forward, his fingertips gently prodding the cleft of Sherlock's arse. He feels Sherlock's body tense for only a moment as he gently massages him, waiting until he's completely relaxed until he slips a single finger inside. "Have you got a list about me?" he inquires casually. Sherlock inhales, his body stretching longer. "I can't say I do." he retorts. "I have itemized every piece of you, but I haven't chosen favourites. It would be, I fear, impossible." He moans around the last word, gripping the pillow he is casually hanging on to as John slips another finger inside.

"Would it be?"

"I suppose I too could go through a rather arduous recanting of every limb and feature you have, but it may leave us discussing body parts for much longer than I'd care to."

"You don't want to discuss body parts?" John asks in mock surprise.

Sherlock scoffs, "I've only got a few in mind at this moment. One of which I believe I need. Now."

John smirks. "Demanding, are we?"

"Extremely. I had a thought as well."

John quirks an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"If we were to possibly skip the contraceptive."

John pauses for a split second, but manages to continue without causing any tension. "Without a condom." John says simply. He can hear Sherlock swallow, and he watches as he nods. "I've been tested. I found it a simple precaution to take, though an unnecessary one." he says. His voice has gone slightly clinical. John knows it is his default when discussing a matter that of relevance. "I am making an assumption that you are also clear. As a doctor, I feel it's a safe assumption."

"It is."

"And as we intend on being monogamous, it seems unlikely that either of us would contract anything—"

"Sherlock?" John interrupts.

"Yes?"

"Alright." he says simply. "But now I'm going to need you to do say something rather sexy, as I've just been given a sex-ed speech." His tone is playful and he really is only joking. Despite the discussion, he finds he's still quite ready to take Sherlock in whichever way he's allowed. Sherlock smirks. "Should I make mention of the pleasure I take in sucking your cock, or would you prefer I babble about the incessant need I feel to have you inside me?" he asks casually.

John's stomach lurches and he no longer feels the need to play. He instead feels the need to act.

"Bad man." he murmurs as he slips his fingers from Sherlock. He uses any excess on his hands to rub over himself, the sensation quite thrilling as neither had paid much attention to such. Sherlock slides his hips upward just slightly, enough for John to properly position himself. John balances himself on one arm and uses the other to grab hold of Sherlock's hip. Then he slowly, deliciously slides himself inside.

The sensation is deafening. Sherlock is more than simply warm, he is hot. John is unable to keep from groaning between clenched teeth at the sensation. He can see Sherlock's face, contorting from something like pained to everything like pleasured, in a split second. It seems to take forever to feel the bump of Sherlock's skin against John's pelvis.

"Christ." John exhales, allowing his arms to fold beneath him. He lays over Sherlock's back, wrapping one hand beneath his shoulder and the other at his hip. He presses his lips to the base of Sherlock's neck, mouth open and tongue sneaking its way over his skin. "Now, John." Sherlock murmurs, shifting his head and allowing his teeth to meet John's hand.

John has to pace himself. The feeling is nearly overwhelming. It's completely sensational and absolutely brilliant but definitely has the ability to make him overzealous if he doesn't. So he rocks his entire body, pushing and pulling slowly. He shuts his eyes and rests his forehead against the back of Sherlock's neck, gripping his hip tight. He listens to Sherlock's breathing, to the quiet grunts and gasps and whispered affirmations he makes.

"You—" John begins, but he can't finish his thought.

"Jesus, yes." Sherlock groans.

John's hand moves from Sherlock's shoulder to his neck, splaying and curling around his throat gently. He feels for Sherlock's pulse, slipping his finger just beneath his jaw. It is strong beneath the pads of his fingers, beating in a quick, solid rhythm. John mimics its tempo, rolling his hips in time with each beat of Sherlock's pulse.

Sherlock whimpers. It's quiet and mostly forced into his pillow but John hears it and feels himself fill with pride. He knows what that means. He drags his hand from Sherlock's hip and props himself up upon his elbow, then gently forces Sherlock's head back. "Yes?" he ask through gritted teeth. Sherlock's eyes are closed and his lips are parted. He can't seem to say much, but he nods fairly enthusiastically. John smiles to himself, snatching up Sherlock's earlobe between his teeth.

"John," Sherlock pants, "I'm not going to..." he trails off into a gasp as John gives a semi-aggressive thrust.

"Don't." John demands. He's not going to last for much longer himself. Between the constriction and the heat and the sensation of skin to skin, he's quite fortunate he's lasted as long as he has. But the longer he goes, the more likely it'll be that Sherlock will come, despite never laying a finger on his erection. This fills John with much more pride than he thought he could have. He allows Sherlock's head to drop back into the pillow. He wraps both arms under Sherlock's shoulders and bites into the crook of his neck. He feels Sherlock's body beginning to tense, feels the muscles in his shoulders flex as he grips his pillow hard. "John." he breathes, just before a quiet, strangled cry forces itself from his throat. John isn't far behind, finds his own head begin to spin and his toes begin to curl, all quite instinctively as the wave travels down John's spine and directly into his hips. He bites into Sherlock's skin just slightly harder than he'd intended to, covering up the much-too-loud moan that was begging to tear itself from him.

Both men are panting. John's body is limp and tired, and he's tempted to ask Sherlock if he fancies a quick kip. But he can't even manage to speak as he slowly slides himself from Sherlock's body. He shuts his eyes and swallows, attempting to wet his throat.

"Good God." Sherlock says after a moment of silence. A small laugh escapes him.

"Yeah." John adds dimly.

They go back to silence once more, still attempting to catch their breath. John's brain is rebooting, it seems. He's finally coming to, able to breathe properly and perhaps even formulate sentences. He looks to Sherlock, who looks as though he's fallen asleep. "Sherlock." John says quietly.

"Hmm?" Sherlock replies.

"Just had a thought."

Sherlock opens his eyes lazily and peers at John.

"You mentioned being monogamous." he says. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow slowly. He's waiting. "Which means that you were thinking in absolutes, right? That there's no one else."

"Yes."

"When I was stationed, I wrote you a letter once." John hears himself saying. "Just the once. I wanted to get you out of my head. In it, I mentioned that when we'd been together, I always thought we were going to be a forever sort of deal. At the time I wrote it, it sounded a bit crap, because we weren't together and I was sure I wasn't ever going to see you again." Sherlock is watching him. His eyes are a little brighter, his attention is focused properly. John scoots close to Sherlock's body and lays an arm over his back. "Sometimes, I lay here and think about how lucky we are to have met again. But then some silly, sort of superstitious side of me starts thinking that... well, it doesn't just happen that way, does it? People don't go an entire decade without seeing one another and then just happen to have the same friend."

"On occasion they do."

"The same friend, who neither of us knew was acquainted with the other, who happens to think we'd get on enough to be flatmates. Sort of think that sounds a bit... I don't know, destined."

Sherlock gives a small scoff. John knows he's sounding silly, sounding overly-romantic, but he can't help himself. He's feeling quite bubbly and intensely in love and he wants to spend the rest of his day laying right there where he is, with Sherlock right where he is, and not think about anything more than how much he loves Sherlock Holmes. "You know as well as I do that such things don't exist." Sherlock murmurs, bringing a hand to John's cheek. "Destiny, fate..."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know." John says with a sigh.

Sherlock lets a half smile curl his mouth. He presses a gentle kiss to John's lips and leans his forehead against his. "However," he says after a moment, "When it comes to you... I may be a bit more open to such ideas."

John smiles. "Yeah?"

Sherlock nods. "I don't think, in all ten years we were apart, I'd ever considered seeing you again. Though the thought pained me terribly, I thought I had the ability to live on. I may not have, now that I know. Now that I've captured a glimpse of it."

"Have I mentioned today that I love you?" John asks, giving Sherlock's mouth a quick peck.

"I don't believe you have." Sherlock replies.

"Well, let me tell you then. I love you." He says quietly.

Sherlock's small smile turns into a grin. He presses another kiss to John's mouth, then another and another still until finally John captures him in a proper kiss. The two men take a long moment to simply stare at one another before Sherlock finally speaks. "Allow me to inform you then, John Hamish Watson, that I—in fact—love you."

Author's Note: WE MADE IT! Queue the band! Light up the sparklers! Someone bust out the bubbly!

The first multi-chapter fic I ever finished writing. Damn, feels good man.

I just wanted to take a moment here to thank you for reading this. I've had some very dedicated followers of this tale, and that is definitely something I hadn't expected. Then again, I hadn't actually expected anyone to read this thing. However, you there, dear reader, are the reason this thing even got finished. That, and-of course-my own interest in actually completing this one (An AU. Who knew.) Point is, whether you've been with me from the beginning, joined in around the middle, or stayed away until it was finished and read it all in one go, thank you. Thank you for laughing, thank you for loving, thank you for getting a bit emotional, and thank you for celebrating the triumphant return

You're the best. It's been a blast. All of my love to you, darling.