Author's Note: This is the final installment in my Johnlock series. Hope you enjoy. (Once more, you might have recognized this from before. I had to post this onto my Fanfiction account after some resposting of other works.) Oh, and if you happen to see this story floating about in cyberspace away from my Fanfiction or AO3 account, please report it as stolen and message me immediately.

Honestly, John was surprised that it had not happened earlier. Their entire world had changed so much in so little time. Moriarty had re-emerged from hiding, broke into the London Tower, gone to trial, and was found not guilty of all charges; for the last two weeks, John had been worrying incessantly about Sherlock since it was only a matter of time before Moriarty came after him. Meanwhile, Sherlock acted as if nothing was different, going about their small cases and his experiments as he always had. Even so, John had managed to play it off and figured he was doing pretty well since Sherlock had yet to call him out on it.

But this had pushed him over the edge. "Sherlock!" he bellowed, yanking a plastic bag out of the fridge. It was the human heart inside of the plastic bag that caused John to snap. Looking up from his microscope, Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. Apparently, the look on John's face was enough to shut him up, because his jaw snapped shut the moment their eyes met. "I can handle eyes in the microwave, thumbs in the vegetable drawer, heads on the shelves, and feet in the oven, but I cannot and will not tolerate hearts, livers, or kidneys anywhere in the house."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, baffled.

"Because those organs can easily be donated and are needed by people all over the world!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock frowned and examined John closely for a long moment. "What is this really about?" he inquired, searching John's face for answers.

"What do you mean, what is this really about?" John snapped, lifting up the plastic bag. "This is about you taking organs that could save people's lives for your bloody experiments, which serve no better purpose than entertaining you for a few days."

"You've been on edge lately," Sherlock responded as his eyes began scanning John's entire body. John knew that Sherlock was not checking him out; he was observing every fine detail. "You tense at every unexpected loud noise. You are always on guard when we are outside; your eyes never linger on one spot for too long. You struggle to fall into a deep sleep because every creak of the floorboards or ratting of the wind against the window signifies a potential danger. You constantly keep tabs on my whereabouts."

John set his jaw and glared at Sherlock. "And what does any of this have to do with the fact that you've moved on to putting life saving organs in our fridge?" he snapped.

"Everything," Sherlock informed him. "If you looked closely, you would realise that there's a bullet hole through the left ventricle, thus rendering it useless for anyone who needed a heart. As a doctor, it should have been obvious to you, but you didn't notice it at all. That tells me one of two things: either you were looking for an excuse to get angry at me or your stress has reached a breaking point. Going by your attitude the last two weeks, it's the latter."

John looked at the heart in the bag and quickly found the hole. Instantly, he felt miserable; he had just snapped at Sherlock for no good reason. To top it all off, it had not made him feel any better. "For fuck's sake," he muttered, tossing the heart carelessly onto the table. He rubbed his eyes, headed into the living room, and sat down on the sofa.

"It's Moriarty, isn't it? You've been like this ever since he was found not guilty," Sherlock said as he stood in the archway, leaning against the wall. John refused to answer. Instead, he covered his eyes with his hands and gently shook his head. "If you're worried about what happened at the pool, John, there's no need to be. I won't let that happen again. I swear to it."

Looking at the consulting detective in disbelief, John responded, "God, Sherlock, it's not – that's not my – I'm not worried about me. I'm worried about you."

"Me? Why would you be worried about me?" Sherlock asked, sounding as if that was the strangest thing he's ever heard.

John responded sharply, "Because he's not interested in a former army doctor invalided from Afghanistan. He's interested in a consulting detective who has similar tastes in entertainment!"

"It's fine," Sherlock said confidently. "I know how he works now, John. How he thinks. He won't get the better of me. So there's no reason to be concerned. When he makes his move, I'll know how to counter."

Sighing, John responded, "How can you be sure? He's gotten the better of you before."

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed.

John raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so you were expecting for him to kidnap me and strap a bomb to my chest?" he pressed, knowing Sherlock would be trapped between either making him mad or fessing to his mistake.

Sherlock scowled as he realised what John had done as well. "It won't happen again," he snapped.

"What won't? Strapping a bomb to me? Or getting the better of you?" John inquired.

Glancing back at his microscope, Sherlock muttered, "Both."

"What was that? I couldn't hear you," John said, unable to keep the smile from his face.

Sherlock frowned at him. "You heard me. I'm never going to say that again."

"Just – just be careful," John responded, resorting back to the sombre aspect of their conversation. "And don't be stubborn about it. There's no honour lost in needing help, you know."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock countered, "Who could possibly help me?"

John did not even flinch at his flatmate's response. "I don't know," he confessed. "But if you figure it out, promise me that you'll ask for help."

"Fine, John. In the completely unlikely case that I would need help from someone, I swear to you that I will go that person and ask for it," Sherlock responded. John could hear the sarcasm in his voice. Of course Sherlock would believe that he would never need help from anyone. Even so, having the promise relieved John a bit. Sherlock did a lot of things, but breaking promises was not one of them. Suddenly, Sherlock asked, "So shall we have sex now?

John laughed as he heard this, somehow still taken aback by Sherlock's bluntness. "What on Earth made you believe that would be a good suggestion?" he inquired, genuinely interested.

"You're still stressed, and sex is proven to relieve stress along with a host of other health benefits," Sherlock answered matter-of-factly, walking towards him.

Picking up the newspaper on the coffee table in front of him, John replied, "I'm not in the mood, Sherlock." Sherlock ignored him, sliding onto the sofa next to him. Staring at the newspaper, John pretended not to feel the soft, warm lips that pressed against his neck. He shifted a bit when he felt a small nip at his Adam's apple, and he silently cursed Sherlock for memorising every erogenous zone on his body. "Lestrade invited me out for a couple pints. Would you like to come as well?" he inquired nonchalantly, figuring Sherlock would turn him down in a second.

The reaction he got was much more violent than he expected. Sherlock hit the newspaper out of John's hands, shoving him back onto the sofa. Startled, John went to protest only for his words to be swallowed by a fierce kiss. Their tongues tangled as Sherlock explored John's mouth. John went to shove Sherlock back only for his hands to be intercepted and their fingers intertwined. Suddenly, he felt Sherlock grind against him, and he couldn't keep himself from moaning. John felt a rush of urgency shoot straight to his groin.

"Yoo-hoo!" Mrs Hudson called out. Before either Sherlock or John could react, she gasped out, "Oh, dear!"

Flushing with embarrassment, John jerked his head to the side and broke the kiss. He quickly leaned forward, pushing his body against Sherlock's, in order to sit up. Sherlock pulled back to let him and snapped, "I believe you can see we're in the middle of something, Mrs Hudson."

"Yes," she murmured. John could see the mixture of horror and pride on her face. Their eyes met, and she gave John a small wink. "Sorry, boys," she said before slipping out of the flat and closing the door.

John groaned and rubbed his face. He could practically feel the heat radiating off it. "What was that all about?" he asked.

"I want to get back to what we were just doing," Sherlock answered, leaning back in to give John another kiss.

Raising a hand, John kept Sherlock from moving in any closer. "That's not what I was referring to," he retorted. "I was talking about your reaction when I brought up going out for a few pints with Lestrade."

Suddenly, the door opened again, and Mrs Hudson popped her head in, "Does this mean that you won't be needing two beds anymore?"

"Mrs Hudson!" John and Sherlock exclaimed at the same time, both looking back at her. She squeaked and quickly shut the door again. This time, they waited in silence until they heard Mrs Hudson descend the stairs.

Looking back at Sherlock, John pressed, "Now tell me."

"You brought up Lestrade after I kissed your neck," Sherlock stated curtly, as if that should make everything obvious.

John didn't follow. "So?" he inquired.

Eyes darkening, Sherlock responded, "Thoughts usually generate themselves in streams, which means that feeling a kiss on your neck reminded you of Lestrade."

Blinking, John stared at Sherlock for a long moment as he processed this information. Had Sherlock really deduced from a question that John either had secret feelings for Lestrade or a history with the Detective Inspector? "Sherlock, are you jealous?" he asked, unable to keep himself from smiling.

"Of course not," Sherlock answered a bit too sharply, turning in order to avoid John's gaze.

John chuckled under his breath. "You're right, you know."

"Of course I am," Sherlock stated, and John noticed a flicker of hurt flash across his face. "I'm always right."

Placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, John explained, "I wasn't in the mood, so I was searching for something to ruin your mood as well. I remembered what Lestrade said, so in an attempt to change the conversation, I brought it up. I didn't realise you would misinterpret the reasoning behind my statement, though."

Sherlock's eyes locked onto John's, and he patiently waited until Sherlock observed everything he needed. After a moment, he relaxed back into the sofa. "Oh," he muttered noncommittally.

"Although I must admit I'm rather flattered you think anything could happen between me and him. Lestrade's a handsome man," John jested, nudging Sherlock a bit.

Very seriously, Sherlock answered, "Nothing will ever come of it. He has yet to get over his ex-wife, and I have never noticed him to have any interest in men. Molly has a better chance of dating him than you do." With that, John realised it was the secret feelings theory that had Sherlock worried.

"I wouldn't date him even if he did offer," John responded honestly, ducking his head in order to catch Sherlock's gaze again. He found it surprisingly human of Sherlock to experience emotions like jealousy, and he couldn't help but be proud of the fact that he had been the one to cause them. "Relationships really aren't your area, are they?"

Pressing his lips together, Sherlock snapped, "Shut up and make me some tea."

"Alright, alright," he muttered, throwing up his hands and rising from the sofa. Suddenly, he felt Sherlock grab his wrist. He turned back and felt a slight pull down. Smiling softly, John knew exactly what Sherlock wanted, so he leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on his lips. Sherlock might never verbalise it, but John knew he was looking for a small confirmation that John was still his. As soon as John pulled back, Sherlock released his wrist. He laid down on the sofa, pressing his hands together and resting them under his chin, and John headed into the kitchen. Seeing the heart on the table, he picked it up and carefully put it back into the veggie drawer.

"So what should we tell Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock abruptly asked.

John filled the kettle with water as he tried to figure out what Sherlock was referring to. Eyes widening, he looked back into the living room to find Sherlock laying on the couch with his eyes closed as if nothing in particular was happening. Feigning ignorance, John turned back to the kettle and set it on the stove. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't see any reason we shouldn't share a bedroom," Sherlock informed him. John dropped the cup he had just grabbed from a cabinet, and it shattered across the floor. "You alright?" he asked, actually opening his eyes.

John glanced around for a broom and dustpan. "Yeah, fine," he managed to answer as he searched.

"A bit of an overreaction to my statement, don't you think?" Sherlock asked.

Grabbing the broom, John responded, "And you can hardly blame me. I mean, you took me completely off-guard!"

"That wasn't my intention," Sherlock replied, and John knew that was the closest thing to an apology he was going to get. "Even so, I don't see a problem with us sharing a bedroom now. I hardly ever use the bedroom now, so it wouldn't be too much different than it currently is. And isn't this a normal step in a relationship?"

John shook his head and said, "You're inferring that our relationship is 'normal.'"

"I'm implying," Sherlock corrected. "You're inferring."

Rolling his eyes, John turned back to the kettle. "My point still stands."

"As does mine," Sherlock noted. "I wouldn't really mind, you know. And it would hassle Mrs Hudson less."

John scoffed. "As if you care about what hassles Mrs Hudson," he pointed out, chuckling under his breath. The kettle finally whistled, and he pulled it off the stovetop. "But since you're playing on my sense of compassion, I take it that means you want me to share your bedroom."

"Infer all you want," Sherlock answered vaguely, his lips twitching ever so slightly into a smile. "I'm just saying that I wouldn't object to such an arrangement. It's logical, after all."

Shaking his head, John replied, "I'll think about it." He grabbed the tea out of a cabinet and plucked out two teabags.

"Have you checked the website today for clients?" Sherlock inquired, swiftly changing the conversation.

John glanced back into the living room. "No," he answered honestly. "I'll check when the tea is done."

"Don't bother," Sherlock responded, getting up and heading over to John's laptop. "I'll check for myself."

Smirking, John said, "I changed the password again."

Sherlock chuckled. "Time me," he challenged, opening John's laptop. As John finished preparing the tea, Sherlock sat in front of John's laptop and stared at it. John brought the tea tray over to the table and had just set it down when Sherlock's eyes widened in realisation. He quickly ticked away at the keys and laughed when the log-in melody rang out.

John laughed as well when he heard the jingle. "Took you longer than a minute," he pointed out.

"Yes, well, I wasn't expecting for you to make it so personal," Sherlock responded, grinning. "Really, though. 'PissOffSherlock'? I thought you would be a bit more mature."

Picking up his cup of tea, John answered, "I would be once you stop logging onto my personal laptop and start using your own."

"Mine's always so far away," Sherlock told him, not looking up.

John rolled his eyes and smiled behind his teacup. By now, he was beyond caring if Sherlock logged onto his laptop or not, but it had become a sort of game between the two for John to change his password to something ridiculous and for Sherlock to figure out what it was. John had yet to win a round. Suddenly, Sherlock straightened in his seat, and John recognised the look of interest on his face. "What is it?" he pressed.

"A potential client," Sherlock answered, absentmindedly reaching out for his teacup. John shifted it so it touched Sherlock's searching fingers. Grasping the cup, Sherlock brought it up to his lips and took a quick sip. "He claims he's going to be killed by the end of the week… and he's offering a substantial amount of money."

John said, "You aren't motivated by money."

"It is a rather nice bonus, though," Sherlock responded matter-of-factly, his eyes still scanning over the text. John frowned as he heard this, finding it strange that money would interest Sherlock all of a sudden. Even so, he knew better than to pursue the topic; Sherlock would probably never give him a straight answer. "Yes, I think this will do nicely. It's at least a five – possibly a six – and I don't know how much longer I can stand it without another case. We should call this man and invite him over to speak about this further."

Nodding, John paused a moment to take another sip of tea. "And by 'we,' you actually mean me."

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, not looking away from the computer screen.

"Right," John muttered, searching for his mobile. Sherlock promptly held it out to him. Taking it, John turned the screen in order to see the contact number and began punching in the digits as he continued, "You aren't just going to snatch this out of my hands once I've finished dialling the number, are you?"

Smiling, Sherlock gently placed his hand over John's, covering the mobile. John looked up in surprise before he felt Sherlock's lithe fingers wrap around the mobile. He rolled his eyes as Sherlock gently plucked the phone out of his hands. Sherlock then took a moment to stare down at the number and nodded. "His name is Isaac Witherspoon," he said before dropping the mobile back in John's hands. John scowled, knowing Sherlock had taken it only to aggravate him. "Problem?" Sherlock asked challengingly.

"Not at all," John responded, hitting the dial button. He raised the phone to his ear and felt Sherlock loom over him, shadowing him. When he heard an older man's voice greet him, he said, "Goo afternoon, Mr Witherspoon. This is John Watson. I'm responding to your message on my website earlier today."

"Ah, yes, I'm very pleased to hear from you, Mr Watson," Mr Witherspoon said.

Smiling, John continued, "We would like for you to come down to 221B Baker Street to talk to us further about your case as soon as it is convenient for you."

"I'll be on my way then," Mr Witherspoon answered. "I will see you soon, Mr Watson."

"Goodbye, Mr Witherspoon," John responded before hanging up the phone. Sherlock, who had been standing right behind John the entire time, clicked his tongue in annoyance. "If you wanted to demand for him to get here sooner than immediately, you should have made the call."

Sherlock did not respond. Instead, he picked up his tea cup and promptly flopped into his chair. Taking a sip out of tea, he then leaned back and looked around the flat. John drank his tea in silence as well, sitting at the table instead. Part of him wondered if he should pick up a bit before Mr Witherspoon arrived. He decided against it, knowing it would prompt Sherlock to ridicule him. Besides, there probably wasn't enough time to make a dent in all the rubbish around the house. So they spent their time in silence as they sometimes did, neither saying a word as they enjoyed each other's company. Eventually, the doorbell ringing disturbed their peaceful silence. They listened as Mrs Hudson answered the door, spoke to someone, and then escorted him up to the flat. A light rapping on the door signalled their arrival, and John looked up just as the door opened. An older man stood in the doorway in a tailored, three-piece suit. Wrinkles and laugh lines outlined his face, and his salt-and-pepper hair marked the stress he must experience in his life. Of course, John knew that Sherlock was gleaming three times the information he was in the very same moment.

Rising to his feet, John greeted, "Mr Witherspoon, it's a pleasure. Please, sit." He motioned to his chair as he stood next to Sherlock.

Mr Witherspoon nodded, glancing a bit disdainfully around the flat, and headed over to the chair. As soon as he sat down, he looked at Sherlock. "I take it you are Mr Sherlock Holmes," he stated. He was examining Sherlock carefully, as if he was no longer sure that he had made the correct choice.

"I'll be doing the deducing," Sherlock answered curtly. "I would like for you to tell me about your case in more detail. Quickly. And make it interesting."

Mr Witherspoon cleared his throat. "I'm not a paranoid man by nature. Even so, I feel that there have been several attempts on my life in the last couple of weeks," he began to explain. Sherlock began to fidget, and John placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently as a silent warning to remain quiet. "I am a man of wealth, yes, but I thought my family was loving. My wife and I have been together for 25 years, my eldest son is just two years away from inheriting the company, and my daughter just started her own successful law firm with my help. And yet I know that one of them is trying to kill me."

"What makes you so certain, sir?" John pressed, hoping the reason would pique Sherlock's interest since he had seemed to lose it during the explanation.

Mr Witherspoon answered, "There just have been too many 'coincidences' lately. I was almost hit by a vehicle five days ago. Just over a week ago, I became mysteriously ill for two days and was almost hospitalised."

"And what happened yesterday?" Sherlock pressed.

Clearly surprised, Mr Witherspoon echoed, "Yesterday?"

"Yes, yesterday. Clearly something must have happened for you to be here now. After all, most people get sick every once and a while. Depending on your family's medical history and your own, it is entirely possible that you became so sick that you needed to be hospitalised. As for the car, it was an isolated incident, was it not? It happens. It hardly means that you're being hunted down. And you said yourself that you are not paranoid. Therefore, something must have happened. Considering we only got the message today and the urgency of your situation, it could have only happened yesterday," Sherlock explained, sounding rather smug at the end. "So, explain."

Mr Witherspoon remained indifferent during Sherlock's thorough insight, but John knew that a glimpse of Sherlock's intellectual prowess would convince the client that he had come to the right people. After a moment's hesitation, he answered, "I drove to work a couple days ago and felt that there was something wrong with the car. When I had a mechanic check it yesterday, he said that there was a hole cut into my break line. It was basically a time bomb waiting to happen. If I had been driving too quickly at the time or in the city, I would have been unable to stop. It basically guaranteed that I would get into an accident."

"Why not go to the police?" John inquired.

Mr Witherspoon laughed in response, much to John's surprise. "Because the police have no idea what the word 'discretion' means. I cannot have whoever is doing this know that I am aware of their plot," he answered matter-of-factly. After a moment's pause, he added, "And I need a man who I know will find out who is behind this. I believe you are the only man for the job."

"And my payment?" he inquired.

Eyes widening, Mr Witherspoon responded, "It still stands at that number, and I will give you half upfront as a good will gesture. I'll double it if you catch the person before they succeed in killing me."

"If we catch the person before they kill you?" John echoed, baffled.

Mr Witherspoon smiled softly. "That's correct. If. I'm no fool, Mr Watson. Everyone's time on this Earth is limited, and I have come to terms with my potential death. Even so, I do not wish to die, which is why I'm offering double if you solve this before the person succeeds."

"And you believe one of your close family members is behind this? Why?" John pressed.

Mr Witherspoon simply responded, "Inheritance. I'm a wealthy man, and they'll receive a lot once I pass. It's the only possible motivation."

"Wrong," Sherlock cut in, and John shot him a look. He pressed his lips together in distaste and shifted in his chair. "In any case, consider us hired."

John blinked in surprise as he heard this. After all, Sherlock had not come off as particularly interested in this case, and Sherlock never did anything that didn't interest him. Mr Witherspoon, on the other hand, was clearly very relieved. Pulling out a check from his jacket pocket, he filled it out right in front of them before signing it and handing it over to Sherlock. "Here's your first payment," he stated, handing the check over to Sherlock, who plucked it out of his hand and quickly tucked it into his jacket pocket.

"I'll start working on your case immediately," Sherlock stated. "We will remain discrete, which will require for us to have no contact with your family unless you have a way for us to meet them without raising suspicion."

Mr Witherspoon smiled. "I do, as a matter of fact, as long as neither of you mind leaving your flat for the length of this case," he replied.

"Not at all," Sherlock responded immediately. "I could do with a bit of fresh air."

Nodding, Mr Witherspoon rose to his feet. "Very good. I will be sending a car for you noon tomorrow," he said matter-of-factly. "My driver will bring you to my estate, where I will fill you in on the details of your stay. I will see you both tomorrow."

"Good afternoon, sir," John quickly said. Mr Witherspoon turned and left the flat without another word. After hearing the front door close, John turned and asked, "You're taking the case?"

"That is just what happened, yes. Do keep up, John," Sherlock drawled, standing up.

John frowned. "I cannot imagine that you found that case even remotely interesting," he pointed out challengingly. "The Sherlock Holmes I know would have turned that case down in a second, man's life on the line or not."

"It's interesting enough for me to leave the house," Sherlock replied. "Besides, we have nothing else on right now."

John didn't believe him for a second. "You're not going to tell me the real reason behind taking this case, are you?" he asked.

Grinning back at him, Sherlock answered, "You're an intelligent man. I'm sure you'll be able to figure it out by yourself someday." And with that, he headed into the kitchen to play with his microscope. John felt uneasy about this case, but he was relieved that it would be something low profile for once. Not only that, but it would get them out of the flat; maybe he wouldn't worry about Moriarty so much.