A/N: Well here's the last chapter – it turned out maybe more angsty and romantic than horror – but when a boy loves a scarecrow what's a girl to do? Hope you aren't disappointed:) I also meant to have this up sooner but the boys were not playing nice & there have been glitches in my life (aren't there always?) so sorry for the delay and those of you who are waiting for Shadow, same thing. Soon.

Thank yous at the end but a special thanks to Mattie. I am dedicating this entire story to her. It's yours Mattie! This is mattsloved1 – she is awesome and marvellous and has had a really tough week & in spite of a horrible day she took the time to edit this piece for me! Hugs! Go make her day by reading some of her amazing fics. Go now!

& a Hello! to john, Lucy, MrsP, EE & jack!

Don't own, but if I did - Oh Benny & Marty – the things we could do;)

5. The Treasure Box I Guard

Day to day existence was dull and pale, a constant, leaden ache which permeated his heart no matter how many layers he placed over it as he attempted to protect what was left. The crack of emotions that threatened to escape and engulf him grew steadily wider until all that he was tumbled into the abyss. Around him was the sharp, unrelenting smell of winter without the cold crispness and the blindingly bright sunny days and even as the seasons changed they did not alter inside him. It was icy and barren in the void. He stoically maintained a mask, one that he felt fooled everyone into believing he was fine, but which, in fact, fooled no one. He felt the steady trickle of his life's blood seeping out through the crack and there was nothing to be done to stop the trail that he left behind everywhere he went. He felt if he said he was fine often enough then maybe he'd believe it as well.

Maybe.

Most days in this half-life existence were manageable. He would awake, climb out of bed, drink tea, perhaps eat a slice of plain toast. He'd dress and head for work where he would cope. And that is all he was doing, coping.

He would come home, eat an uninspired supper or at least pretend to and drift back to sleep, where he hoped he would dream of him again. Dream. Not the crushing nightmares, which picked him up and deposited him in the relentless cycle of pain and anguish.

Some days were not so good. Some days found him crouched naked in the shower, back against cold tiles, not sure how he had got there, tears mingling in with the water which at some point had stopped being even lukewarm. He'd find he was clutching his chest, or his hands were over his face, and a steady stream of no's would be hoarsely whispered out of his mouth. The dreams linked to those days were of unforgiving images of being unable to stop the continuous fall of Sherlock, over and over again. Rewind, hit play, view again.

When it got really bad, when he felt his dark thoughts could not handle another day, he would crouch down and pull a wooden box out from under his bed. In it he kept sentiment, pieces of the past mostly. His medals, a trilobite fossil, a chestnut, a key to his first flat but all were ignored for the one thing it held inside that would ground him back to reality and at the same time cause his heart to beat normally again. In the box lay a symbol of hope, an artifact which made him question the possibility that Sherlock might still be alive. It also caused him to question his sanity.

There, amongst the silt of his life, lay a single piece of straw, brownish gold at one end, rusted brown at the other.

He would pull it out and hold it in his hand, stroke it, almost wish on it. And then carefully, reverently, he'd place it back, and he would be able to face it all over again. On those nights of shored up courage, he'd dream of a voice whispering to him, telling him it was all right and begging him not to despair.

On the first anniversary of Sherlock's jump, friends came around to check on John, to make sure he was okay. Greg forced him to go to a pub.

"You realise that this may not be your best idea," John commented, wearily. He could tell Greg was worried about him. He was aware that the D.I. could see past the bricks and mortar of the façade he'd had put up and recognized it for the fakery it was.

Greg stared at him for a long time before John could see the shift in his thoughts and the precise moment when he'd come to the decision to address the elephant in the room.

"John, you can't live like this. You have to let him go."

He could feel a sad smile tug his mouth into shape as he looked up and at Greg. He knew Greg saw a little of the despair that lay underneath. He knew the other man wouldn't sleep well thinking about the look in John's eyes, knew the best he could offer in the way of friendship and comfort was nowhere nearly good enough.

John rubbed a hand over his face and looked down at the glass in his other hand, the glass he'd taken a few token sips out of, knew if he ever started drinking in earnest he would never climb out of that particular hole.

"I can't Greg," was all he said.

The D.I. huffed at John in sorrow and exasperation.

"Look, I know, okay? I understand more than anyone else what he meant to you, but don't do this. Don't, I don't know, don't fade away. He wouldn't want that."

John was quiet for so long Greg wondered if that was going to be the end of it.

Then he looked at Greg, really looked at him for the first time in a year, as John, not as the pretend John he had been playing.

"I can't let him go. I failed him twice. I wasn't there for him twice because once I was afraid and once I was angry. I am keeping him in here, inside me until I die, because that's all I have left of him. If I keep him there, maybe somehow he's still alive. Do you understand?"

Greg looked back at the diminished army doctor and nodded once, wretchedly, and let it go.

John hoped that was the end of the matter because he didn't want to try and explain how Sherlock might come back because there was a slim chance he was really a scarecrow and scarecrows could survive falls from the top of a four-story building, couldn't they?

There came a day, a few months after, when Autumn had reached the best of her days. The sun slanted through the trees, which were gradually losing their leaves and that smell was back, the smell of this time of the year so rich and thick you could almost live off of it. The leaves in the park John was walking through made a satisfying sound under his feet and the way everything glowed gave him a feeling he didn't recognize right away, it had been so long since they had shaken hands.

He paused in his walk.

Contentment. Peace maybe. Such unfamiliar companions. He closed his eyes and let the autumnal wind kiss his brow. He stood basking in the last warmth of the dying sun and just listened.

That feeling, the feeling one gets when something unexpected might be just around the corner. He revealed in it. He felt renewed and energized, and it welled up through his heart and leaked into his soul, both of which seemed starving for something. It was a patch at best, but it was the first step toward the possibility of healing.

He opened his eyes and nodded, just a fraction.

Autumn had always been a season of change for him. Here was a chance to live again. It was time. Time to pick himself up and continue. Greg had been right. He needed to for Sherlock.

Not every day was golden, but it was a turning point. And even the bad days, the horrible days, the days were he thought pulling the covers over his head and not getting out of bed gradually decreased.

In the time of year when winter lets go its fight and hands the reigns over to spring, John found himself asleep, deeper and better a night than he had in a year and a half. His dreams were slippery fragments, laced with images he couldn't quite grasp. There was a moment when he felt a familiar weight on his head and the sensation of fingers in his hair, but it was gone. He awoke refreshed and with the impression he had just missed something. A noise like the soft click of a closing door caught his ear, and he raced through the flat and down the stairs. He skidded out on to the pavement and caught the flash of a long dark coat disappearing around the corner.

He stood there panting, wondering if he had seen what he thought he had seen. He shook his head and went back inside. The feeling of something lost and somehow returned persisted throughout the day.

After his shift at the hospital, he found himself walking home. He had taken the Underground for a fair distance but needed to get above ground again and breathe.

He walked down a narrow alleyway, a shortcut back to Baker Street, lost in his thoughts. Fortunately, his muscle memory and his subconscious were looking out for him. He found he was crouched down, making himself a small target, without even being aware he'd moved. A sound, not heard much since the army, had made him transfer to this position. He scanned the buildings above him, and as his eyes swept the heights, the gleam of a laser caught his eye. He shifted quickly and took off running out of the alleyway. He heard the clatter of a fire escape behind him, and he sprinted faster. Whoever it was had decided they were not going to make any effort to hide the fact they were after him. It suggested either great confidence in the person following or great stupidity. Possibly both. If John had been the sniper, he would have hidden in the shadows & taken another shot rather than show his hand. The other must be impatient as well, all flaws to work in John's favour.

As John ran, he felt a surge of energy race through him. It was one of the things he'd been missing, one of the multitudes of possessions taken away from him with Sherlock's death. He ran with the full knowledge that whoever was behind him might very well be faster and better than he was and with the idea that at some point he would turn and face them. He felt he'd rather meet them head on and embrace death than run from it. For that is what was behind him. His death. He could taste it the way a rabbit can taste the fox waiting at its doorway or the way a mouse tastes the displaced air from owl wings before it swoops. He had been running from his death for a long time, too many close calls. He was ready. He was ready to embrace it in the hope that he would see Sherlock again.

He stopped, abruptly midflight and turned to greet it. As he turned, he laughed, gleefully and full of life and bliss, more than he felt in a long time.

A man stood in the shadows, a man whose presence left the impression of darkness and something twisted and evil. Tall he was, as tall as Sherlock had been but broader of shoulder. A pale scar, which ran down one side of his face, flashed in the light from a streetlamp. A cruel grin settled comfortably on his lips, and his wintery eyes were harsh without a trace of pity or warmth.

John looked into the eyes and embraced what he saw there. This was his.

The man came closer and tilted his head. He appeared puzzled by John.

"You are not what I expected." The sneer in his voice lay heavily, almost visible. "I had heard you had become broken and depressed. It would be a mercy to put you out of your misery."

John felt the grin on his face widen and wondered a bit about his mental stability.

"Well, you see me now. Do I look broken to you?"

"No. I think this will be a much more satisfactory killing."

He moved in and the fight began, a strange dance of two men each with their strengths and weaknesses. Both evenly matched because of them, balanced by them. The only difference was that at some point John knew he would give up and let the other take him. Grunts and hits and punches were the only sounds heard in the alleyway.

There was a pause whilst they gathered and regrouped. John ached from heavy blows and was marked in new ways, but his blood sang with the feeling of being alive, so close to his death.

"Aren't you curious?" asked the dark man.

"Curious about why you are trying to kill me? No. Should I be?"

The other just smirked and moved in again.

Slowly, slowly John was worn down. Slowly, slowly he gave up ground until he found himself slumped against the wall and big, heavy hands wrapped around his neck. Sparks danced at the edge of his vision, and a beloved familiar voice was calling his name. He smiled, knowing he'd see the one he loved above all others, soon, as the dark closed over him and then nothing for what seemed a long time, but was, in fact, mere moments.

Perplexity filled his mind. He could still feel bruises forming and where the hell was the light they all talked about? Where was Sherlock? Sherlock who had scoffed at the idea of an afterlife? John knew it wouldn't matter; they would overcome any obstacle even the absence of a heaven or a hell to be together at the end of all things. Sherlock should be here to greet him, with his cocky grin and his knowing, piercing gaze.

Eyes fluttered. Cracks of light seeped in as his brain tried to make sense of images of which he was catching glimpses. Finally, eyelids dragged open. He was greatly disappointed to wake, cold and alone lying on the damp ground. He groaned as he shifted, not happy with the tally of injuries he seemed to have gained and annoyed that he'd have to deal with them now instead of being mercifully dead. He checked his bruised throat as he glanced at the pavement. A shape lay facing him, the other man, his neck at an impossible angle, still and not breathing.

His throat felt battered and possibly damaged, and as the fog cleared from his brain and he pushed aside the discontent of being alive, a new thought came over him. He knew who had killed the other man.

"Sherlock," he softly croaked. There was a noise beside him, and he turned slowly to face the man he had been waiting to see for so long. Sherlock was crouched down beside him, a look of concern on his face, his hand tentatively stretched out toward John, trying to touch him. There was the sense that he wasn't allowed this simple indulgence; John could see it in those marvellous multicoloured eyes, the awareness that John wouldn't forgive him. He could read it there as if it were in print upon his face.

"You really have to stop killing people for me," John's voice was raspy from the abuse. "We need to look into therapy for your murderous impulses."

"You really need to stop trying to get killed, John."

John drank in the sight of Sherlock, quenched a thirst that had been denied and ignored for too long, filled up his senses with the joy of him being there, whole and alive.

"Take my hand, John," Sherlock calmly, matter of factly said, in that dark as chocolate and coffee and cigarette smoke voice.

John felt a strange and slightly manic grin shape itself to his face and took the proffered hand.

"This doesn't mean I am ready to forgive you. I am assuming you played dead for a reason. You almost killed me yourself, Sherlock. You know that, right?" His voice was barely a whisper.

Sherlock raked his eyes over John, no doubt noting the other injuries he'd received. The familiar search was almost a physical thing. John could feel it glide across his skin, unwrapping him, exposing him, leaving him vulnerable in a most delicious and tantalizing way. "You need to shut up now and stop talking. I'm going to take you to the hospital and get you checked out." He paused when John started shaking his head. He placed a gloved hand on the other's face to still the motion "No, John. You are going to go, and you are going to get checked out and then I am going to take you home." The word home hung between them like a lifeline. There was so much longing in Sherlock's voice. There was so much longing in his eyes.

"I'm sorry John, but all of it, every bit of it, ever since I met you, my whole existence is tied to you. It always has, and it always will be." He paused and the hand that had stilled John's face, traced delicate fingers over his cheek and down to his chin, mindful of the bruises blooming there. "I would do anything, beyond anything to protect you. Without you there is no me, not anymore."

John was weary. The adrenalin that had sustained him had left him and the shock of seeing Sherlock was heavy.

"Just take me home, Sherlock. Please? I know how bad it is. Just take me home. I can deal with all of this unreality better there."

Sherlock looked to argue but just nodded and found a cab. He kept one hand on John, both to steady him and to show he was really and truly there.

The ride home was silent. John closed his eyes, not even the least bit afraid this was a dream, and he didn't wonder if Sherlock would disappear. The weight. The weight he had felt that morning in his sleep was back in his hair as it softly caressed the blond and silver strands. John smiled and drifted to sleep. It wasn't much of a nap as it wasn't much farther to the flat. John had been fairly close to home when he had been attacked.

The rest of the evening was spent mending John, heart, soul and body and talking. Sherlock did all of it with some guidance. John sat and watched every movement and catalogued every facial twitch, every smile, every gesture and stored it in his heart, in a wooden box that held his sentiment. He was thrumming with a flood of emotion, anger, joy, fury and sorrow. Murder and wonder-filled him to the brink in equal measure. He was drained from his ordeal and exhausted from the flood of unrelenting emotions, but he couldn't leave to go to bed. He stayed and listened as Sherlock explained everything to him.

Later after heart-wrenching hugs and soft, tentative kisses, later as the kisses melted into desperate storm surges, later as they wrapped around each other just holding and being held, rejoicing in the familiarity of touching and being touched, as their skin drank up the feeling of contact and closeness, later as John realized how much he had missed this simplicity as he ran his hands slowly and carefully over and across Sherlock's back, counted prominent ribs, catalogued new scars, he asked the one question he had never dared ask in all this time, had never unlocked from the treasure box.

"Sherlock, are you the scarecrow?"

There was a long pause, and John could almost hear Sherlock thinking.

Finally he shifted onto his side and leaned over to kiss John once more, kissed him, profoundly and prolonged, with time-consuming attention, with all of his intensity and deliberations, with a wonder of the first kiss present in the impact of that kiss; a kiss that spoke of apples and summer's dying and fall and the wildness of birds.

He stopped long enough to caress John's face and looked into his eyes, eyes, which spoke of never letting go ever again. "Does it matter?"

"No," John shrugged. "Not really."

"I told you once before. There are the resonances of possibility in this; there are the nudges of truths and facts that link us together, you and me and him." He kissed him again to seal what was between them. "All that matters, John, is that you are mine. I would go to the ends of the earth for you. I would jump off a building for you," he paused. "I did."

John reached around the back of Sherlock's head, tangled his fingers in Sherlock's curls, pulled him down.

And kissed him back.

Afterwards John, as sleep finally claimed him, thought he heard but couldn't be entirely sure, and only ever, truly remembered in his heart, tucked into the same box, thought he heard the soft whispers of Sherlock speaking into his ear.

"Scarecrows never really die, John. Only if you stop believing in them. You never did. Not really, not ever."

And he followed the sound of that beloved voice down into dreams and imagined fields and autumn and crows and sun-warmed dirt and being held forever, warm, safe and secure and very much loved.

A/N: Thank you so much for all of the incredible, wonderful response I got for this!

Thanks you so much to johnsarmylady, mattsloved1, Lucy36 (see? He's going to get therapy!), mrspencil, ennui enigma, jack63kids (when you get to it), MrsNoggin, thedragonaunt, patemalah21, Sherlockiannightmare, junejuly15, SassyVeeDub, hjohn306, Old Ping Ha (your story is next! I pomise!)Pat is Fannish (Shadow is coming soon!), mugglemom08, starrysummernights, Good Old James, Kotori-Sensai, iamsherlocked89, twilighter256, xSommerRegen, Maebit, Naylorticole, BlackPanzy, crimsonlove4evr, JustJuice27, JRLink, night owlO.O, Caranina, skrillqueen, GuinniePig09, wandam, lavender elephants, I'm Nova, SecretTemptation, winglessangelsstillfly, memberofWLM, demonsinger, Theatre of Dreamers, WL Chastain, sarahwuzheree, AsamiAkihito, figureskatingismypassion, DJFireHawk, BeeLeeGee, tntfriday13, EJBRUSH1952, kingryu, KeepYerCoolGreenBean, elfedlem, Timber Delonic, sweetmarly, Hierran, Addict to Fanfics, blairwitch, WarWulf, kuromerukaki, iamthedaisyqueen, bloody-black-lion, shadowingwitch, sitres, Hellhounds and all the lovely Guests 9 especially – Argo & elahe) and the lovely people on AO3.

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