Author's note: Here we are, the final chapter. More later.

I don't own anything, please review.

Later, Sherlock would blame the fact that he had let himself be blinded by sentiment for suddenly being shoved into the pool without offering much resistance. He had still been shocked at John's betrayal, trying to figure out how to survive, when the doctor had suddenly walked back and stood beside him, and he had attempted to understand what had prompted this sudden change of loyalties, if maybe it was another plan –

When John had pushed him into the pool and he'd realized that the doctor was going to kill Moriarty, or to die trying, just so he could be safe –

And then John had shot the consulting criminal, while Sherlock had been watching, having just surfaced in the middle of the pool, careful not to disturb the bomb, and he should have bemoaned the loss of the best adversary he was ever likely to have, but he didn't. Instead, he attempted to scramble out of the pool, wet, cold, frantic, his only thought to get to John, to –

To prevent what happened while he was still trying to grip the edge of the pool to heave himself up, but because his hands were wet, it kept slipping out of his grasp –

And he knew what had happened when he heard the shot, but he refused to believe it. Against his better knowledge, because he didn't want it to happen, he refused to believe it.

Although because he knew that, if he stayed underwater at least one of them had a chance to survive, he stayed pressed to the wall of the pool (though his head was above the water) until he heard Moriarty's associates leaving.

He climbed out of the pool as soon as the door closed, not really caring if anyone had been left in the building (although later, he'd claim that he'd checked, neither Mycroft nor Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson believing him), and, while he hated the expression, he couldn't deny that it felt as if his heart missed a beat when he saw John lying on the floor, a gunshot wound in his chest, dangerously close to his heart.

And, considering that he'd chosen Sherlock over Moriarty, that he'd been prepared to die, just to be on "the side he wanted to be on", he deserved Sherlock's attention.

Or that's what Sherlock would say, later, when ´his brother asked him why he had looked after a dying man instead of following Moriarty's henchmen.

But the truth was that he simply couldn't let John alone, it didn't matter that he couldn't do anything to stop the bleeding and save him. It didn't matter that John probably didn't even realize he was there and was just mumbling words that happened to flitter through his brain. There was nothing Sherlock could do, other than keep him company.

Except to text Mycroft – he'd never been more happy about the plastic cover (water resistant) he always put on his smart when going anywhere it might be particularly wet, and the pool where Jim Moriarty had killed Carl Powers had certainly deserved this distinction.

John had a sister – a sister he had told him about, during one of their meetings (and Sherlock tried to ignore the thought that he'd told him about her casually, in a half-sentence, like one would tell a friend, like one would tell someone one trusted), a sister Moriarty must have threatened, since otherwise, John would have told Sherlock all about the plan; after all, he had to have known that taking the consulting detective's side would most likely result in his death.

Sherlock swallowed as he was texting. No one had ever done something like this for him; it was true, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade (and Mycroft, though he didn't like to admit it to himself) cared about him. But making sure he was safe while at the same time knowing that one would take the bullet – no. No one had ever done it for him, and it was highly unlikely, judging from John's condition, that it would happen again. Suddenly, it became difficult to breathe, and Sherlock shook his head while finally sending the text, trying to get rid of the obstruction in his throat.

Send an ambulance to the pool Carl Powers died in. John has been shot. And have your stand-by team protect Harry Watson.
S

There was no need to tell Mycroft that Sherlock knew that his brother checked his homepage, or rather had his homepage checked, every hour; they were both aware of it. He didn't doubt that Harry Watson would be safe, and that the ambulance would arrive in a matter of minutes.

Minutes John Watson didn't have.

He was bleeding out, and Sherlock was leaning over him, dripping water over him, but he couldn't help it, he had to look, to try, to save John by just being there, even though it was hopeless.

John croaked out his sister's name, and Sherlock told him that he'd texted Mycroft, though he was rather sure that the doctor, who was by now clearly losing consciousness, didn't understand.

Somehow, his hand found John's and he squeezed just as his – friend's eyes closed for what would most likely be the last time.

The door burst open and the paramedics rushed on. Sherlock was shoved out of the way for the second time that night, though he didn't land in the pool this time, and stood up, feeling a bit light-headed.

John was wheeled out of the room, and Sherlock, realizing that he couldn't drive with him to the hospital, and that he would have to wait for information either way, slowly made his way to Moriarty's body. The game had been a good one, and he had to make sure that he was dead. He was.

The consulting criminal still wore the last expression his face had shown; it was one of surprise. Sherlock wondered why he didn't cherish it as much as he would have, as he should have, simply because –

There was no "simply" about it. A good man was dying because of him. For him.

He felt Mycroft's presence before he turned around.

His brother was standing a few feet behind him, looking strangely out of place in his expensive suit, his always faithful umbrella at his sight. He looked into Sherlock's eyes and slowly walked towards him, finally standing next to him, looking down on Moriarty's body.

Then he said "I was just informed that two people were going to enter Harry Watson's flat to kill her when the team arrived. They are in custody, and she doesn't suspect a thing."

"Thank you" Sherlock said, because he couldn't say anything else, because he was afraid to ask whether John had already been dead when they wheeled him out.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, surprised, then looked at the body again.

"Good shot".

"You said he was a good soldier" Sherlock confirmed.

They were silent for a few moments, then he took a deep breath and asked, "Is he – "

"Not yet" Mycroft answered with the honesty he only reserved for his brother. Sherlock flinched, and his brother seemed to see something new in him, all of a sudden, and added, "He was brought to a private hospital. Most people don't know it exists".

Secret Service, then. Sherlock nodded.

"I'll take you to him".

Sherlock nodded again and followed his brother.

The stayed silent, all the way to the hospital, all the way into the waiting room, Sherlock half-expecting to hear upon arrival that John was dead, but the doctor told them that he was still in surgery, still holding on.

John Watson was nothing if not strong, and Sherlock realized too late that he'd started to allow himself to hope. Now he couldn't stop.

And it would hurt worse than if he hadn't when John died.

He forced himself to think "when", not "if", because the injury was most likely fatal and he wanted to be prepared, ignoring the part of him that told him he wouldn't be prepared anyway.

Mycroft sat next to him, for once lost for words, and Sherlock would have enjoyed it immensely, should have enjoyed it immensely, but he couldn't.

Mycroft spoke just once.

"He's an extraordinary man" he said.

"Yes" Sherlock answered.

"He's your friend".

And, again, Sherlock replied, this time much more quietly, "Yes", and Mycroft squeezed his shoulder, just once, so quickly Sherlock could have imagined it.

After hours and hours, the door Sherlock had tried not to stare at opened and a surgeon walked out.

Sherlock stood up, seeing Mycroft do the same out of the corner of his eye.

This was it.

John remembered well how he'd woken up after being shot; he remembered the confusion, the not knowing where he was, the fear.

This time, there was none of that. He knew he must be in hospital, he knew he had been shot, and he knew Sherlock had made it out.

But the first thing he registered was surprise that he was alive after all.

His second thought was whether Sherlock was nearby.

His third (and he decided that he'd feel guilty for it later) was Harry.

Then, he heard a voice he would have known anywhere.

"She's fine. Mycroft's people caught the assassins".

John opened his eyes and found Sherlock sitting next to his bed, looking tired. Apparently he'd stayed at his bedside for...

"How long?" John asked.

"Three days" Sherlock answered, "and they didn't know whether you'd make it on the first."

John would have nodded if his whole body hadn't felt like lead. Instead, he smiled.

Sherlock smiled back.

"Thank you. For Harry".

Sherlock shook his head. "I should thank you".

Then, John realized something else.

"Am I under arrest?"

"No. Mycroft understood that I would not be pleased if you should be prosecuted. The Pool never happened."

"Good, then" John answered. Then, he looked at the consulting detective. "Sherlock... I never wanted..."

"I know".

"No, hear me out, please" John said, because he wanted Sherlock to know. "If I hadn't done what Jim told me, he'd have killed you and Harry. And me."

Sherlock looked surprised, and John cherished the look on his face.

"Me? That was a threat?"

"Of course it was" John said immediately. "I couldn't let you die."

Sherlock stood up and walked over to the window, and John was suddenly sure that the consulting detective was touched and didn't know what to say.

But then Sherlock did say something, and it was in such a matter-of-fact tone that John couldn't help but smile.

"I'm glad you didn't die."

"Thanks, me too". But there was a question, in fact the question, John had to ask, because he couldn't bear the thought that Sherlock would just walk out the door and his life, now that he knew the doctor would be fine.

"What happens now?"

Sherlock turned around and answered, still matter-of-factly.

"You recover. And afterwards... Well, you need a certain amount of adrenaline to feel happy, that much is obvious. And I need a flatmate so Mycroft can't force me to take boring cases because I owe him for paying part of the rent. You can have the room that is currently my laboratory. I'll conduct my experiments in the kitchen."

There were many things John could have said, like "Are you sure?" or "That's not healthy" or "Actually, I was thinking about leading a more normal life now", but only one thing he wanted to say.

"Sounds great".

Sherlock grinned, and John grinned back, because there was nothing else to do.

"Our first case" Sherlock announced, "Will be to catch Sebastian Moran".

"I'm looking forward to it" John replied.

And he truly was.

Because, looking at Sherlock, and the consulting detective looking back at him –

He felt like the universe had righted itself, like they were finally what they were supposed to be all along.

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.

Best friends and partners in crime.

Two parts of whole.

Author's note: I didn't want to leave you hanging to long, so I wrote as fast as I could.

I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. I thought about writing a sad ending, but I don't like those very much – and these two just belong together.

As usual, this became longer than I thought it would be. As usual, I took a different course than I thought I would take, and as usual, I had fun writing it.

Please tell me your final thoughts (I promise to answer those reviews, at least – sorry for not doing so before. I've just been busy). It's not easy to picture in character John working for Moriarty (though I certainly liked to imagine it – I'm weird).

Also, I might not publish anything in the next few days – as stated before, busy week.

All that remains is to wish you all a beautiful day,

Hekate.