Final installment of this series, just a series of cute little drabbles. Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!

John watched with mild amusement as Sherlock sorted his socks, ensuring that each pair was facing the direction he wanted, grouped accordingly to his sock index. They were moving into their new home, hopefully their only home. Sherlock had graduated from college just a few months ago, and Mycroft had finally agreed to allow Sherlock access to his bank accounts. John was certain that the crafty elder Holmes brother was keeping an eye on Sherlock's purchases.

He tried not to giggle at what Mycroft thought of Sherlock buying the variety of bathtubs and other water-based receptacles that now lived at 221B. John couldn't stay out of water long, and when he did, he often got water everywhere. Mrs. Hudson, their unusually tolerant landlady, did cluck and shake her head over the sodden carpets and muttered about mold (which she quickly regretted, for Sherlock's eyes lit up at the thought of a new experiment).

"You've switched that pair three times now," John remarked casually, floating in his bathtub right next to Sherlock's narrow bed. Since they couldn't sleep together, not in the usual sense, Sherlock had rigged up some odd bed/tub hybrid that allowed Sherlock to sleep above water while John slept in it. They often slept holding hands, twined together in the way that they could be.

"I knew that," Sherlock snapped peevishly. His hands were shaking, and John's face softened, sympathetic.

"Come here, love," John murmured, wishing he could get out of the tub and pull Sherlock over. Having tentacles was so inconvenient sometimes. Sherlock turned and walked over, dropping to his knees so that John could pull him in for a hug and a brief kiss. "You're nervous, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm not." Sherlock looked affronted at the very idea of him being nervous.

"Your mouth says no, your face says yes. You might want to work on that, love," John teased.

Sherlock swatted at him, but the scowl on his face slipped, allowing a smile to brighten John's mood. He wrapped his arms around John's shoulder, pressing his head into the crook of the half-octopus' neck, breathing in his scent. "I'm going to be fine." Sherlock's voice was muffled, and while John completely believed that Sherlock would be fine, he also was certain that Sherlock was not one that agreed with that assumption.

"Yes, you are," John said firmly, kissing Sherlock's curls. "It's not like it's a proper interview, anyway. Mycroft has arranged it."

"Ugh," Sherlock muttered. "Mycroft."

"Yes, Mycroft," John chided. "Sherlock, you're amazing. Just - just try not to get punched, yeah? You keep the first-aid supplies too far away for me to get to them."

"You're not a doctor, John," Sherlock pointed out. "Besides, they're just testing me to see if I would work as a consultant for them. I don't think I'll be in any danger." He paused, frowning. "Would you like it if I moved them closer? I wasn't certain if you knew how to use them."

"What do you think I do while you're gone?" John shrugged, releasing his partner, although Sherlock did not let go. Carefully John ran a hand soothingly up and down Sherlock's back. "I like when you get new books."

"I could take you shopping with me," Sherlock mused absently, and smiled when John's face lit up. "You could ride on my shoulder, in my coat collar."

"We'd have to modify it a bit." John looked at the thick wool coat with a hint of suspicion, and Sherlock snorted.

"I believe I would be amenable to such a suggestion." Sherlock shifted and kissed John sweetly, tenderly, and the small half-octopus lost himself in the feelings of being so close to the one he loved.

Finally John pulled back, breathing quickly. "You have to go, Sherlock, or you're going to be late." His eyes flickered to the clock.

"I'll text you." Sherlock pressed a chaste kiss to John's lips before grabbing the offending coat and swirling out the door in a wave of drama. John could barely suppress a chuckle from where he was floating in his sleeping tub. He doubted it would be a habit Sherlock would ever grow out of.

John spent the hours Sherlock was gone floating about in his bed, perusing the pile of books that he had made Sherlock put next to him when they had arrived. Most were interesting, consisting of mysteries or thrillers interspersed with true-crime novels, or books about forensics or criminal psychology or whatever had caught Sherlock's mind when he bought them. Sherlock was going to be a consulting detective, John was sure of it. That was why he was meeting Detective Inspector Lestrade today, to see if he could manage it.

It had been Mycroft's idea, after Sherlock graduated from Uni and then got kicked out of his first job (research assistant) for blowing up the men's loo. John had helpfully pointed out that he had assisted Sherlock in concocting the chemicals required and earned himself a steely Holmes glare. Sherlock had considered it brilliant, and the smile that he had given John had warmed his heart for weeks.

It helped, sometimes, when Sherlock was gone, to be able to remember when Sherlock smiled. When he curled up with John, hands twined together, and they talked. Sometimes about silly things, like whether a ninja would beat a pirate. Sometimes they talked about more serious things, like where they were going, what John would do, what Sherlock would do. Their hopes and dreams, their wishes and wants. For some reason Sherlock let his guard down around John, and John reciprocated as best as he was able to.

John was dozing when he heard the door slam open, heard Sherlock bounce excitedly up the stairs before darting into 221B and then into their bedroom. "John!" he shouted, practically vibrating with excitement. "I'm going to be a consulting detective! Lestrade's agreed to take me on!"

Eagerly Sherlock leaned down and captured John's lips with his own, threading a hand into the soft hair at the nape of John's neck. The kiss was warm and tender, morphing quickly into heated and enthusiastic, Sherlock's glee showing in the way he moved, how he nibbled on John's bottom lip, sucked softly. By the time he pulled away, both men were panting, and John had an arm wrapped around Sherlock's shoulders.

"I'm proud of you," John said honestly. He was distracted when the doorbell rang, and Sherlock strode confidently to the door before opening it and quickly paying for the delivery that had arrived.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said with a wide grin, flashing the credit card at John. John shook his head, amused. The taller man extended his hand towards John, and the half-octopus immediately shifted into his smaller form before crawling eagerly up Sherlock's arm. Sherlock led them out to the main room, taking off the cover of the smaller tub near the low-sitting table before gently placing John in the water.

John expanded back to his full size and smiled warmly at his partner as Sherlock set up the take-out and required utensils. Sherlock refused to eat with chopsticks, no matter how many times John tried to teach him - he claimed that he was simply storing brain power for more important situations, but John was sure that Sherlock simply couldn't grasp the concept.

"You're worried I'll leave you behind," Sherlock said after they had been eating in a comfortable silence for a few minutes. "That I won't have any time for you."

John stared at his food for a few moments. He hadn't realized until that moment that he had been thinking exactly that, wondering where his new place would be in Sherlock's life. The man was undoubtedly brilliant, and would be in high demand. How would he feel, shackled to John's hip? Even after all the remodeling he had done for their new home. "Yes."

Sherlock sat down his utensils and shifted so that he was face to face with John, so close that they were breathing the same air and John was nearly dizzy with arousal. "You came with me, to school," he started, words slow and hesitant. "John, I love you, and although I love my Work, I picked you. The work found me, picked me, not the other way around." Sherlock kissed him sweetly, tenderly. "Besides, with all the knowledge you have gathered, you might be less dull than the rest of the population," he teased softly. "I could always text you while on cases for your opinion."

John slipped a hand across the table, and Sherlock took the hint, taking his hand and twining them together. Although Sherlock was rarely emotional, John loved it when he was. When Sherlock would bare his soul, be honest and open, and lose the facade that he attempted to portray to the outside world. "I love you too," John said finally, squeezing Sherlock's hand. They ate quietly, quickly, and then sat together, as close as they could be, watching some silly show on the telly.

Sherlock got shouty and scolded the host for not noticing obvious things, but John was not watching the show. He was watching Sherlock, watching the man he loved, the man who thought he shone so dully but was instead a gem waiting to be discovered.

John knew things would be tough, sometimes. He would feel unappreciated, ignored, and Sherlock would get frustrated, get distracted. He would make promises to text John and not keep them. John would promise things and forget. But it worked, the two of them, in some strange sort of way, and John felt confident that they had the rest of their lives unfurling in front of them.

It was a path they would walk together, hand in hand.