Author's note: Well, here's the last chapter :) Enjoy!

Chapter 11: A good place to stop, this non-ending of theirs (of ours)

I wish I could tell you they run to the flat and feel the thrill of a horizontal fall. I'm very tempted to, seeing as it would make for such a good plot device. You wouldn't know the difference if I did, wouldn't know whether I told you the truth or not, but I promised not to lie to you again. So, no – they don't run to the flat. They don't get caught up in a muscle-pulling, lung-expanding momentum initiated by their own bodies, no matter how poetic it would be if they did.

They take a cab, for both the obvious reasons (such as John being recently drugged and unconscious, thus being rather unfit for physical exertion that running would include, and the flat being 6 kilometres away from the crime scene), and for those less obvious ones. The less obvious reasons are really a multitude of ragged threads of thought, united into a single cord of heterogeneous tension. The cord seems to bind their bodies, just like all those watch chains, restricting their movements and making it impossible for them to run. It conducts the tension right into their muscles, paralyzing them into immobility. Thank the universe for motorised vehicles.

The flat is dark and cold when they enter it. There is an instant before Sherlock flicks the lights on when they just stand at the threshold, the tension cord winding tight, and stare blindly into the space they cannot really make out in the shade. They are about to step into domesticity while still tied up by invisible bounds, held hostage in their own home by their own words. Maybe the darkness would help make it easier, allow them to hide from the words and the cord and each other. Maybe it would, and maybe it wouldn't, but as Sherlock turns one the light, the possibility to know for certain is erased. They move from the door, John going about the hearth to start a fire, and Sherlock walking to the window.

The air is laden with unresolved issues, with heavy emotions weighing down on their heads, but John can't deal with those right now. He knows Sherlock is highly unlikely to be the one to start the discussion, so if he doesn't either, maybe tonight can just pass without...just pass. Tonight needs to be over, and when morning comes all the words will still be there, brimming and demanding to be spoken – a short delay won't change that. He is fumbling through all the words that whirl in his head, trying to reconstruct their previous altercation, but there are only fragmented sentences forming some sort of sludge in his mind. He needs something simple, something clear and uncomplicated, to take his mind off of everything. The sludge will be there tomorrow, waiting to be pushed through.

John reaches to take a women's magazine off a pile on the coffee table (and doesn't even try to reason why exactly there is a pile of women's magazines in a flat inhabited by two distinctly male residents). He thumbs through it, hoping desperately for a distraction hidden in the repetitive movement of flipping the pages and the run-of-the-mill articles about this and that. After the events of the last 48 hours, he just needs a distraction, no matter how banal. He can still smell the storage unit on himself – it smells of wet concrete and terror. There are still echoes of clocks ticking and Sherlock yelling his name, resonating in John's mind, and he needs something to be louder than the echoes. When written words fail to silence them, he tries to drown them out with his own voice.

"These magazines are ridiculous... Look at this quiz, 'What is your inner animal?' – really? Who are these intended for? Twelve-year-olds?"

It's a pathetic attempt at creating an illusion of normalcy, and knows it, but can't be bothered to try harder. Sherlock finally turns and looks at him. John can see the decision-making process taking place – play along with John's pretence or let it fall flat? Playing along would be the merciful thing to do.

"For whom, not who for. And I fail to see how they are any different from the crap telly you are so insistent on watching. Both are equally simple-mindedly constructed sources of what is supposed to pass as entertainment, but only serves to further lower one's intellect."

Thank you, Sherlock.

"So why do you have them, then?"

"They provided useful insight for a case some time ago. You weren't here for it; it was that week you were off at Harry's."

"The one with the urban night scene killings?"

"Precisely. If I recall correctly, you dubbed that one 'Clubbed at the Club'"

Sherlock's gaze tells John everything he needs to know about his flatmates opinion on his little word play, but Sherlock feels the need (of course he does) to voice his thoughts, all the same.

"Really John, it's as an unimaginative title as it is in poor taste."

Recovering from his initial disbelief over Sherlock Holmes lecturing him about propriety and things being in poor taste, John tries to reel the conversation back in, circling back to his original line of inquiry.

"So, what animal did you get?"

He tries to make his tone sound teasing (and given the circumstances, should at least get credit for trying), and hopes Sherlock continues to play along.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I didn't actually take the quiz. Just because I use witless publications as data sources, it does not mean I lower myself to the level of such trivial frivolities."

Sherlock doesn't seem to be entertained by this conversation, to say the least, but John is thankful he keeps it up, anyway. He can see the tension surrounding the detective, and he knows it's not a product of being accused of reading women's magazines. John is not the only one imbued with echoes and smells that force unwanted reminiscence upon him.

"No need to get defensive, I was just being curious. Although, now that I think about it, it is pretty obvious what your result would be."

Sherlock's face stays impassive as he raises one eyebrow at John, challenging him.

"This ought to be inspired... Enlighten me, please."

John can't help but smirk at the condescending tone. There is something about it that overrides the echoes.

"A peacock. For obvious reasons."

"If you are referring to the fact that peacocks show off their feathers, thus drawing a parallel between such behaviour and that of my own, where I display my mental prowess, then your reasons are invalid. Peacocks display their feathers as part of courtship, with the final aim being finding a mate with which to breed. I, on the other hand, while admittedly a show-off, am most certainly not one for the purpose of attracting a sexual partner."

"So why do you show off, then?"

"Because I can."

John barks out a laugh, reflexively, thankful for the fact that some things never change. It is a distorted, raspy sound that should be considered an insult to his real laughter, were it not for the fact that the alternative is a scream or a howl, making this poor excuse of a laugh the best available option. He needs a reminder that there is still something to tether him back to his life, when he feels as if he is running high on chloroform and stale adrenalin, stranded in a limbo that is both here and now, but also hours ago in another place. For all of those reasons, to John, Sherlock's blatant lack of modesty seems like the man's greatest virtue, just then. He is just about to think of a reply, when Sherlock decides he should have his share in the fun (well...maybe fun is not the most fortunate term).

"My turn."

"Sorry?"

"It is my turn to assign you an animal most fitting to your personality. You've had your say, so I think it is only fair that I get to reciprocate. Although, I doubt it can really be categorised as reciprocity, seeing as your choice was a rather mismatched one, while mine will be spot-on."

Deciding to ignore the obvious jab, John leans back in his chair and settles in for a lecture. There is an edge to Sherlock's voice, and not a humorous one at that, and it makes John wonder where this conversation is leading. It makes the sludge of past accusations seem like a highly likely destination. John can already feel the mud seeping in.

"Okay then...reciprocates away."

He doesn't really care if Sherlock compares him to a slug. As long as he is talking, the echoes in John's head lose their morbid power, retreating in the face of Sherlock's rapid concession of words.

"A Lesser Flamingo."

John might not care about the comparison, but he can't help being caught completely off-guard by this one. As if he expected to be anything other than surprised. Expected surprise – a paradox made possible only when one lives with Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"A flamingo, John. Lesser Flamingo, to be precise. It is a large –"

"Yes, yes, I know what a flamingo is, thank you very much. What I meant was, why is it, exactly, that I remind you of a large, pink bird? Is this revenge for the peacock comment? Because –" He tries to force lightness into the discourse, bullying it into something bearing semblance of their usual banter, but Sherlock's impatient retort intrudes upon his desperate attempts.

"No, it is not. It is simply an accurate comparison based on the fact that you share a great variety of characteristics with this particular species." There is a forcefulness in the way Sherlock speaks – as if it is of vital importance that John understands what he is trying to tell him.

"There is a lake in Northern Tanzania, called Lake Natron. Its salt and sodium bicarbonate content is extremely high, and its pH falls in the range between 9 and 10.5, making the water extremely alkaline. The environment is inhospitable, to say the least, seeing as the temperatures in the water rise up to 41 degrees Celsius. The conditions are also highly volatile, changing with the weather, without a moment's notice, when the alkaline water of the lake is mixed with the slightly acidic rainwater. The mud planes surrounding the lake are a barrier for most mammals, and with strong winds, low biodiversity and general hostility of the place, this lake seems suitable only for several species of highly-resistant algae.

However, despite all this, it is the primary breeding spot in Africa for Lesser Flamingos, a near-threatened species. Despite its hostility the lake provides them with what they need to thrive – food, and protection against predators, which are fairly scarce considering the environment. They not only survive in a place deemed uninhabitable by other animals, but thrive in it. They are rare, as is their breeding sight, and together with it they form an amazing ecosystem, full of peril, but sustaining life, all the same.

Much alike the Lesser Flamingos, you, John, live in an environment most people would consider positively hazardous, and yet – you thrive in it. Your everyday is filled with things which can in no uncertain terms be labelled "dangerous", from decaying flesh in vicinity of food, to regular exposure to gunfire. Considering my lifestyle, and thus, but association, yours, it is highly unlikely either of us will reach the age which constitutes for average life expectancy of a white British male. You are constantly at the verge of extinction, and oddly, your environment is as dangerous as the dangers it keeps at bay. You are at greater risk of a violent death, but at the same time, this makes death of sheer boredom and aimlessness all that less probable."

John stares, dumb-struck, as he comprehends the full accuracy of Sherlock's words. Sherlock is his alkaline lake – volatile and hostile for others, but for John inexplicably perfect – corroding away the dangers that come with John's mind being left to its own devices in a world that will forever be slightly foreign to the ex-soldier. Even now, Sherlock is proving essential, with his words, despite their solemnity, fending off the assault of resonating horrors so recently experienced. It's not a metaphor, nor is it poetic – it's just a comparison, painfully accurate; a translation from one context into another, used to prove a point.

John is snapped out of his musings, as Sherlock continues to speak, apparently coming to the grand finale of his list of things that make John a Lesser Flamingo.

"Of course, then there is the greatest calamity."

"And what would that be?"

"Me."

By this point, all the joking levity John clung to throughout the evening, seems to have been lost in alkaline water full of soda ash. Still, when Sherlock designates himself as the most perilous component of John's life, the air takes on a whole new kind of gravity.

"Sherlock, you can't possibly think this – any of this – is your fault..."

John doesn't manage to finish his thought before Sherlock's frustrated scowl cuts it short.

"Of course I don't think that. It is idiotic to feel guilt over someone else's misdoings. It wasn't I that abducted you. And seeing as I was not the person killing the victims, nor was I in any way contributing to their deaths, I do not hold myself responsible for any of that, either. His obsession with me might have served as motivation, but it could have easily been anyone. So no – I do not consider the killings to be my fault. The only things for which I claim responsibility are my own failures regarding the recent events, and those suffice to provide quite enough of that for which I may feel responsible."

"And what failures might that be?" There is disbelief in John's voice, mixed together with firm resolution to convince Sherlock he is wrong – concerning what, exactly, John doesn't know yet, but whatever Sherlock has convinced himself of being culpable for, John is decided to exonerate him of it. He is in no way under the illusion that Sherlock Holmes is infallible, but to have Sherlock so acutely aware and admitting to this fact, is rather disconcerting.

"To name one – letting emotion obscure my thinking, thus unnecessarily prolonging the time you were held captive. That seems like as good a place to start as any."

Despite all his adamant avoidance of the sludge, John is mercilessly thrown right into the deepest part of the word-swamp he was so eager on giving a wide berth. So much for the delay.

"Caring? Is that it? You're saying that you failed because you cared about what happened to me? I thought we already agreed to disagree about this particular topic."

"No, John, not just caring about what happened to you – caring about you. And, surprisingly enough, I have no interest in revisiting our previous discussion. I am simply stating that this particular case proves my point – caring is of no use in crime-solving. If anything, it is a hindrance. I was afraid, and the fear didn't serve as a catalyst. Emotion is the greatest enemy to a clear mind, and I need my mind to be clear, John. It is of the utmost importance."

"Sherlock...I've told you my opinion on this, told you why caring matters, and you've told me yours about why it doesn't. You have solved dozens of cases, and you never cared. The only reason why caring became an issue in the first place is because I brought it up, first with Moriarty, and then again a few weeks ago. And you never cared this much about not caring.

I mean, you've always stood by your decision not to, but it was never such an issue, at least not to you. Why is it so important now? Is it because of the fact that you still managed to solve a case despite caring? Is it because it showed that not caring might not be as important as you think? Sherlock, you're not at fault for caring, it's not a crime that you did."

"Don't you understand, John?! It is because I cared, this time, that it was so crucial that I didn't. Don't you see? If there were ever a time demanding of me to be at my best, then it was when it was your life hanging in the balance. Caring, in cases such as those which are our business, inevitably leads to fear, which consequently leads to reduced abilities to function at the highest possible level. Had there not been the need for me to waste time and energy trying to subdue my emotions in order to be able to think, I could have solved the mystery much more quickly. If it hadn't been for the fear, I could have found you sooner. Not caring, and thus not fearing, was never as vital as it was yesterday, because never before has my not caring been the single, most important prerequisite for not losing that for which I cared. Or more precisely, who I cared for. What good would caring for you do, if it lead to me losing you? So, you see, you were right, before– caring does make a difference, after all. It is a dangerous impediment."

Finishing his rampant monologue, Sherlock picks up his violin, wielding the bow like a sword. The discordant sounds that permeate the space, in wake of these proceedings, make John feel as if the bow is being rasped against his very nerves, instead of violin strings. He knows Sherlock needs this, needs to pour out some of the fear out and into the tones (John wouldn't really go as far as to call unmelodious rummaging through the scales music), but the screeching is bordering on unbearable, and John knows this is not how things should be left. When Sherlock persists on continuing what could easily be considered a torture technique, John pushes himself out of his chair and takes a step towards the frantic performer. He wants to say 'But you found me in time, anyway', but he knows that would be the wrong thing to say. It would be wrong, because they both know how closely things came to it being untrue. He doesn't want to hear Sherlock say 'I almost didn't', because then the echoes would adopt Sherlock's voice, and he can't have that. So instead, he takes a different approach, his first order of business dealing with getting Sherlock to stop slicing the air with screaming fiddling.

"Sherlock, could you give it a rest, please?"

Luckily for John, he is still good three steps away from Sherlock when the latter turns around in a way so abrupt that he would have certainly cause John to trip over, had he been any closer.

"What do you suggest I do then, John?"

Sherlock is looming over him, all inharmonious tones and tense muscles. John sees determination which is really something else (fear, that's what it is. Fear; name it – take away its power), in Sherlock's eyes, and knows what is about to happen. He recognises the tension – it is a hybrid between that caused by fear, and another, endlessly more complicated one (name it? How? No way to take away its power). They are teetering on the tightly strung cord, which is shivering under the stress of their combined fear, and reverberating with the haunting echoes that seem to surround them more vividly than ever, just then. He knows what Sherlock's instincts are telling him (just as he knows how hard Sherlock is fighting the said instincts, trying to ignore their advice) – to grasp onto the only thing that may serve as support on this unstable stretch of string that is lulling beneath his feet. Grasp onto the one solid thing within arm's reach, the same one that shook the line in the first place, in a way. Grasp onto John.

John knows what Sherlock's instincts are telling him, because John's are saying the same. Only, there is a small part saying 'Not like this. Not when it is fuelled by fear and desperation. Not when it's an urge, instead of a decision.' John knows which part to listen to.

One of the side-effects of Sherlock's "divorce" from his emotions is that, when he fails to distance himself completely (as is only inevitable), he is much less practiced in dealing with them then someone who embraces their feelings. John knows from experience what happens when Sherlock is forced to face his emotions, especially fear. He has seen it happen once already, in front of another fire place, sitting in a different armchair. Then, fuelled by fear, both that of seeing an impossible apparition and of actually feeling, Sherlock lost control – an occurrence that lead to one of rare apologies ever to cross the threshold of the detective's lips. So, John knows what happens when Sherlock gets scared – he says (and does) things he doesn't mean. And this cannot be that. John cannot be that.

Sherlock is still standing in front of him, the tension coiling around his body equal to that of rosined hairs strung across the violin bow, which hangs loose from his fingers. Sherlock's sword of equine hair, his last line of defence, now a placid parallel with his thigh. Whatever it is that Sherlock is feeling, be it fear or something infinitely more frightening than that, it has won. Or perhaps, Sherlock surrendered. John likes to think there was an armistice, that Sherlock has made peace with this imaginary enemy comprised of immeasurable, indefinable entities. Either way, Sherlock isn't fighting anymore, he is simply waiting to find out what awaits him now. He is waiting for a verdict...or instructions.

'What do you suggest I do then, John?' Tell me what to do, John. John knows the choice is his.

"Let's play Cluedo."

The tremors threatening to overthrow them abate, as relief grabs one side of the line and disappointment the other, holding it in tight grasps and stilling it. Relief and disappointment – such dissimilar emotions, yet there is a common undercurrent tying them together, like rivulets fuelled by the same flow, as both include release of tension. The shaking tightrope, on which Sherlock and John are balancing, slowly comes to a standstill. Sherlock doesn't snap, seeing as the tension curling around him is lifted; he simply seems to sag a bit, as he accepts John's answer.

"I thought you have sworn never to play Cluedo with me again. Something about rules, was it?"

There are no clocks ticking anymore, no ominous passing of time that requires urgency, and John relies on that fact. He relies on the fact that they have the luxury of time and, more importantly, of choice. It is for that reason that the disappointment is unwarranted, and John wants Sherlock to know that.

"We can make our own rules."

Not like this. Not when it's dictated by residue of chemicals and fear and nearly-averted loss. Not now, but later. Not when you might regret it. Soon. On our own terms.

We can make our own rules.

They play Cluedo for the better part of the night. They go through five rounds before they quit. They change the rules so that it is possible for the victim to have done it. It's a ridiculous, simplified board game version of their everyday life, really. Murders and culprits and clues, all on a cardboard surface, with little pieces of plastic, ones that cannot lie, or deceive, with a victim that cannot bleed, and is resurrected time after time, just to be sacrificed again.

Obviously, it's nothing like real life, really, but it is refreshing to see the murder always solved, the culprit discovered, without exception. No unsolved cases, no looming threats of escaped villains. Once, it's Miss Scarlett in the ballroom, with a lead pipe. Another time, it's professor Plum, with a dagger, in the conservatory. Two times after that Sherlock proclaims it a suicide. The last time, it's Mrs. White, with a candlestick, in the study. Sherlock wins four out of five times.

Somewhere in the middle of the second round, John starts talking. He talks about all the times caring made a difference – not as a dangerous impediment (as Sherlock has so eloquently put it), but as a vital catalyst. He talks about all sorts of things – some mundane and some life-altering.

He reminds Sherlock about the time Mrs. Hudson came up to check on Sherlock (because she cares for him), only to find him asleep dangerously close to his still-burning Bunsen burner, and proceeded to turn it off. He talks about the time Lestrade sat on Sherlock's deerstalker to hide it, when Donovan was pestering Sherlock about wearing it at a press conference (because he knew how much it irked Sherlock and he cares). John fills the spaces between throws of dice with examples, anecdotes and proof.

Lastly, he talks about the warehouse and the ticking clocks. He tells Sherlock how caring mattered in that moment when he was trapped in the darkness of his unconscious mind, how it had a voice. He tells him that caring sounded awfully like a certain annoying Consulting Detective, telling him to stop this, and how in the end he listened to it, and woke up. Of course, Sherlock quips up to contradict him, saying how this is not proof, seeing as John would have, most likely, woken up either way, so it doesn't really matter if John cared about waking up.

Oh, Sherlock, can't you see? If caring is a felony of which one can be found guilty, as Sherlock has painted it to be, then John is Sherlock's partner in crime. That is why John tells Sherlock that it wasn't caring whether he woke up or not that he was referring to, just now.

He had to wake up, because he had to make sure Sherlock would eat and sleep and not get himself in trouble, as he usually does. He had to ensure Sherlock was reminded of so many things, not the least of which being the fact that caring is not a fault. He had to wake up to tell him he understands. He had to wake up, because he cares for Sherlock. The darkness was comfortably numb, and he wouldn't have minded staying there, where nothing hurt and nothing bothered him, really, apart from the caring, which made waking up imperative. Sherlock can say what he wants, but John knows that caring made a difference then, because it was the thing that made him want to wake up.

By the time they finish the fifth round, and John's speech draws to a close, something has changed – they have stepped off the tightrope, and onto solid ground. As John puts the Cluedo board aside, Sherlock picks up his violin once again. This time, when he starts playing, the music is a diametrical opposite of that which screeched its way through the flat just hours ago. It is a strange melody, but undoubtedly charming. There is an alternation of straightforward parts and those more intricate. It is a unique mixture of simplicity and flourish, of things that shouldn't sound good together, but do so anyway – exception to the rule. John sits back in front of the fire, listening, and smiles. It is as if they are playing a sixth round of the game, and this time it is ever more apparent that they are playing by their own rules. The victim is fear. The culprits – Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, in the lounge, with a violin bow and a smile. They both win that round.

The dishwater-coloured light of early autumn morning seeps into the room – it is another a cold, misty October morning. Well, I might not have known at the time that the weather of that first day would prove to be of any importance, but it is just as well that I took the time to describe it, if only because it makes for such a lovely circular narrative. The weather that adorns the last moments of our story, closely mimics the one which welcomed us into it. It might not be important (I told you I didn't know if it would be), but it is sort of poetic, and makes up for the poeticism lost earlier, when our duo of protagonists couldn't run to the flat, but had to be driven, instead. It is some sort of poetic (and maybe slightly ironic) that the weather should be the same on the day they lose their steady, bottom-line happiness, and the day when they gain it back.

As Sherlock finishes his tune, turning to dispose of the violin, John gets up to stoke the fire, which has long ago dwindled to embers. When both men turn back towards each other, seemingly washed clean by the grey light, there is a different sort of tension between them. They are no longer standing on a line suspended in mid-air, grasping onto each other under the threat of an abyss below. Now, on solid ground made of wooden panels, standing only slightly apart, they reach out – not because they fear a fall, but because they dislike the distance. This tension is something pleasant, like anticipation, like hope. As the last of the distance is eliminated, the tension uncoils, while at the same time managing to coil ever so tighter. Another paradox. An impossibility transpiring, just then, among plastic murderers and silly magazines. It's who they are: an extraordinary impossibility among everyday pieces.

The hated distance is quickly being committed to memory, and within the time it takes to draw a breath, they meet in the middle of it. It's who they are: a memory of a distance being erased and a history of steps taken on various surfaces, from tightropes to wooden floors, always in the same direction – towards each other.

They are bright, emitting light like burning magnesium. They are reactive, combining like hydrogen and oxygen to form water – salty, corrosive water, red and fuming – but it's who they are: an alkaline lake and an endangered species thriving on the lake's abrasive nature.

It's a chemical reaction and an ecosystem. It's a decision, one that goes unregretted. It's a moment of echoless quiet. It's that moment when a time zone is crossed, and clocks stop ticking in order for time to be altered. It's an agreement pertaining to a discussion held three times. It's two men who are very, ridicolously lucky.

It's all that, but first and foremost, it is a kiss - and what a caring one, at that.

Have you ever run so fast that you felt as if, after a while, you were being propelled simply by the gained momentum, no longer truly in control of your movements? Have you ever run like that? Have you ever felt like that? If you have – good, then you know what I'm talking about.

Hold on to that memory.

Remember that feeling, because that is exactly how this kiss feels.

It's endless momentum – exhilarating horizontal falling. It's who they are.

Perpetual motion.

I could tell you about what comes after the kiss. I could tell you what else these two are, about other cords that bind them, and all the games of Cluedo they play after that first, very special one. I could tell you about the time John finally finds the right animal to which to compare Sherlock, and about the way Sherlock refuses to admit to how fitting the comparison is. I could tell you when they finally stop calling whatever it is that comprises their new cords "caring" and call it something else – call it what it is – because caring becomes (always has been) inadequate, too weak. I could tell you what they call it instead, but I won't, because if it is left unnamed then its power can't be taken away (although, I would like to see the force that could take away the power of this unnamed thing, even if I were to name it – I doubt there is such a force).

I could tell you so much more and still not tell you everything, because their story hasn't ended. It is still unfurling, and I'm still here to take note of it. I could, and I even might, tell you all of this, some day. But for now, let's stop here – this seems like a good place to stop. Just like there are no real beginnings to a story, there are also no real endings. There are only good places at which to stop, and good things with which to do so. So, let's stop with a kiss – let's be like time, standing still while they are moving fast around us.

This is a good place to stop – standing still among perpetual motion.

A big thank you to everyone who stuck with this story, I hope you've enjoyed :)