Countless universes, million upon millions, more than could ever be imagined twist between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

The most complicated knots of thread one could possibly imagine, all work to lead to one thing, the universe in which they meet, become flatmates, and grow old together.

But all of the many universes' hard work almost becomes spoiled after Sherlock jumps off the roof of the hospital. Not because Sherlock dies, no the universes had already planned for that, and in this one, their baby, everything works out fine. (In others, not so much, lasting injuries plaguing the detective for the rest of his days, and in some he doesn't survive the fall at all. In others still he doesn't jump, calling Moriarty's bluff that isn't, and being forced to watch John get shot in front of him, arriving home to find Mrs Hudson dead, and Lestrade not answering his calls.)

But it's not Sherlock's actions that threatens the one perfect universe, the one universe that has been carefully planned and prepared for, no, it's John's actions.

Because it's not Sherlock's choices that split the branch, not like the universes had thought all along, but it's John. Ordinary, plain, average John, who makes decisions in split seconds and alters realities, spanning new universes with his cereal decisions and jumper shopping. The man who no one would suspect is the one who they all have to thank, or hate, because they are all his.

And when John comes to the point where that branch splits into two, it's not a choice between life and death like the universes had planned for it to be, with John obviously going down the path that continued, rather than the one that halted. It was not that path at all, because that was not an option. John Watson was only choosing between his gun and Sherlock's drugs. And neither option ended well.

John barrelled towards this decision without faltering, and the universes balked.

John Watson was not supposed to die, not in this universe, not in any. Not like this. (He does commit suicide in other universes, the one where he comes home from Afghanistan and can't afford London on an army pension, but doesn't move in with Harry, instead tells her he's moving away, but instead throws himself off a bridge. In some he shoots himself, and in others, he doesn't make it back, not because he's actively suicidal, but because he doesn't value his life nearly as much as he should.) But of all the threads, all the paths, all the branches that the life of John Watson was to take, this was never one of them.

That strange impossible man who looked like he hugged kittens for a living but could shoot a man dead through two sets of windows at a great distance. The unsuspecting man who was the one you really had to look out for, not the obviously dangerous man that was Sherlock Holmes.

Apparently, the universes had not been prepared for John Watson.

All of the universes, the millions upon millions, the impossibly enormous number of worlds that had been rooting for John and Sherlock from the beginning, all of them crowd around John, begging him not to do anything, begging him to just, please, stop it.

The force of all those millions and millions of lives John's had, both lived and not, weighs heavily on him. Before he can do anything, make that final choice, he grows dizzy and lies down. He falls asleep before he can go through with anything.

When he awakens, Sherlock has come back from the dead.

John punched him before collapsing back onto the bed, still a bit dizzy.

"You're not dead," he said stupidly, his head still spinning.

"No," Sherlock said kindly, and John had to give him that, for if there was one thing Sherlock hated (and there wasn't, there was dozens upon dozens) it was people stating the obvious.

"You... bastard."

Sherlock only bowed his head, almost as if in shame, and looked around the room.

He noted what John had left on the night stand.

"John..." he whispered. "What were you going to do?"

John looked to where Sherlock's gaze had rested. The gun. The hidden stash he had found, in his own room of all places.

He looked away from Sherlock. "Nothing. Of course. Nothing."

"You weren't going to?..." he breathed.

"Of course not," he lied.

Sherlock looked down at him and saw it in his eyes.

"Alright," he whispered.

In this universe, The Universe, Sherlock and John are one entity, Holmes&Watson, Sherlock&John, inseparable from that day forth.

When they grow old and weary of crime fighting and mystery solving, they move to Sussex where Sherlock raises bees and John watches him from the house, still blogging about his adventures with his mad consulting detective.

Everyone was where they belonged.

All was well.