Alright. This is it! I am finally putting an end to this story. Sorry I've left everyone hanging for a while there. I'll be coming off of hiatus now, just not sure how much I'll be posting new works. This has been fun and I'm so very glad that you've enjoyed this.

Thank you to anyone who ever commented, favorited, or followed Turning of the Tide. Also, thanks so much to everyone who supported me so kindly during my hiatus.

And now, let the reading commence!

Chapter 15 - Follow

I wake on my back with a nose pressed firmly to the side of my neck and a large, warm hand resting across the band of my pyjama bottoms.

During the night, I had turned away from Sherlock, so now I slowly move to bury my face in the soft curls beside me. Eyes sliding shut, I breathe in the scent of this madman I've entangled my life—and now body—with. The arm pressed into the mattress by Sherlock's body has easy access to his smooth shoulder, and I spend idle moments stroking the soft skin there, resting in the honeyed morning light.

I'm careful not to wake up the exhausted detective, but only a few minutes pass before I feel the fingers on my stomach lightly flex into my skin.

"I'm awake," he mutters into my chest.

Neither of us moves at first, but I can feel Sherlock's toes flexing beneath the blankets and know it's only a matter of minutes before he's ready to get up.

Inhaling deeply, I turn on my side, simultaneously pressing Sherlock over and onto his back. He lets out a quiet sigh as I nose the sheets lower until I can nuzzle into his smooth belly. I press my lips there lazily, tasting the slight tang from our activities the night before, and then rub Eskimo kisses into the velvety skin until he begins to squirm. With a smile, I move back up and press another kiss to his shoulder.

He turns his face to me, and I can feel his eyelashes against my temple. Bracing myself on my hands, I push up and look down into the ghostly face. Something in my chest loosens to see clear eyes blinking back at me. Gone is the smothering shadow that had haunted them the day before.

"Tea?" I murmur softly.

A small, genuine smile tilts his mouth upwards. "Please."

I roll out of bed and pad my way into the kitchen, putting the kettle on before making a trip to the bathroom. My stomach is still slightly sticky from the night before, so I grab a cloth and clean up the best I can before going back to the bedroom.

Sherlock hasn't moved, so I crawl over the bed to him and clean his belly, slowly pulling the flannel across skin as the muscles beneath quiver slightly. As I back away to finish the tea, he grips my wrist lightly and pulls me in, initiating a quiet, calm kiss. I tug gently on his bottom lip with both of mine as I pull away, kissing his palm before going back to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, we're both propped up on pillows, sipping tea as the sunlight crawls further into the room. It climbs over our feet and up the bed until the room is flooded in all its golden beauty.

"It's morning," I say, for no obvious reason.

"Well deduced."

"Smartarse," I mutter, taking a sip.

He hums. "Yes, but I'm quite sure you can attest to the fact that my arse is one of my finer…assets."

I turn my head slowly, staring at him for a full thirty seconds, mug poised for a drink. "Sherlock Holmes," I say, "did you just make a pun?"

I see his lips curl into a smile behind his cup as he takes a posh sip. Pale eyes meet mine, and then we're chuckling—no, giggling, and the morning really is absolutely glorious.

"What's on today, then?" I ask once we've caught our breath, shifting slightly to press my bent knee to his thigh.

He shrugs delicately, swallows his tea. Smug bastard hadn't spilt a drop during our bout of near-hysterics. I, on the other hand, hadn't been so fortunate. "Nothing as of yet. Perhaps Lestrade will call with a case."

I turn and study his profile. He lets me, continuing to make progress on his tea as I take in the slope of his nose, his highlighted cheekbones. He's unhurried, almost unconcerned whether there is a case or not. I know it won't last, and that's perfectly fine. I need a case just as much as he does, most times. It's what had brought us together in the first place, the work. I won't complain. (Much.)

So I settle back against the bed and bring the mug to my lips, listening as London awakens outside. Later, Sherlock will be back to his whirlwind self, dashing about the flat in want of a case, petulant over Lestrade's incompetence.

Perhaps he'll call. Perhaps the case will be intriguing. Perhaps Sherlock's eyes will brighten in excitement and he'll loop on his scarf and spin into his coat. Perhaps he'll call Come on, John! as he thunders down the stairs.

And I'll follow.

(Obviously.)

fin.