Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

From the outside, life goes back to normal at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock is out solving cases, sometimes taking John with him, other times not. Most of the time, John finds his days are spent back at the busy morgues and teaching rooms off Barts, and it's something he finds he enjoys so much more than he thought he would.

Then there are the differences:

There are the cameras; small and supposedly un-noticeable, except for the fact that John knows they're there and he sees them watching out of the corner of his eye. They're in the house, and on the streets, and at the hospital, and they should be intrusive, but John can't feel the anger or irritation that he would have before Moriarty.

There are the people; they blend in seamlessly, changing faces with their shifts and John doesn't recognise any of them, but he's never alone in the street, or at work, or in the supermarket.

There is a woman at work. She started just before John, filling a vacancy that wasn't there. John knows why she's there, and she knows that John knows, but they don't talk about it. They talk about the weather, and the rugby results from the weekend, and the tube strike that causes chaos throughout London.

There is Mycroft.

He keeps his word; never allowing more than a day to pass without taking John away for his lunch break during the week, or pressing him up against the wall at Palmer House and stealing his breath with deep, intense kisses.

John never feels crowded; he never feels pressured, or uncomfortable, but he does feel the hold Mycroft has on him. He feels the possession in the way Mycroft's fingers push into his hips; the way Mycroft tilts his head, angling his mouth and his lips and pressing until John can barely breathe without him.

It's different, John muses as he walks through the almost empty corridors at Barts. Different because he is normally the instigator; he is used to the chasing - booking tables at romantic restaurants, arranging dates to the cinemas, reaching out and holding hands as his date smiles shyly up at him.

John is used to being the protector. He has been raised a gentleman, he has been trained to be both killer and healer, but now he is being protected. No one speaks to him, or looks at him or walks past him in the street with Mycroft knowing, and John wonders how much time has to pass before the fear and the protectiveness the older Holmes brother feels fades to a normal level.

Lost in his thoughts as he turns a corner, John feels the breath leave his body in a rush as fingers circle his wrist and pull him through an open doorway. Before he can even protest, the door is closed behind him, and he's pushed against it. His head is tilted back and a mouth presses down on his own.

Any sound of surprise is immediately forgotten, as familiar lips move against his. Instead, John moves his hands to entangle themselves in dark hair, and he pushes himself up into the kiss, a small moan dragged from his mouth as they part briefly for air.

The kiss is deep and hard, and John can feel some kind of desperation in the way Mycroft's hands pass over his body, in the way Mycroft pushes John harder into the closed door.

It's a long time, John's lost count of exactly how many minutes, until Mycroft finally breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against John's as they both gasp for breath. It's a further few minutes more until John feels he's able to speak.

'What was that for?' He asks, clearing his throat as his voice shakes. Mycroft smiles briefly at the evidence of the effect he has on the doctor, but then his smile fades and he closes his eyes.

'No reason, John.' His tone is calm and sure, but it doesn't convince John, who frowns up at him.

'No,' he says slowly, pushing Mycroft away from him gently. 'No. You can't hide things from me, Mycroft. That's not fair. What's happened?'

Mycroft looks at him for a moment, face expressionless, but then he sighs.

'We caught four men this morning. Two followed Sherlock, tried to use a taser on him.' Mycroft's distaste of the choice of weapon is obvious, but John presses him for the more important details.

'Is he ok?'

'Of course. He has a few bruises, but he has endured worse.'

John watches Mycroft for a moment as the other man moves to the window, the silence dragging. It doesn't make much sense so far, and John knows there is more.


It only takes one word. Mycroft bows his head, and takes a deep breath. His fists clench in a conscious effort to calm himself down.

'The other two men followed you here this morning. We intercepted them before they got to you, but…'

The pause is an unhappy one, and John knows why.

'They got through your surveillance.' He says. It's a statement, not a question, and his voice is calmer than he feels.


The word is clipped, and Mycroft flexes his fingers angrily.

'And you don't know how.'


John sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingertips.

'Where are we going?'

Mycroft turns, and in two long strides he is standing in front of John, hands cupping his face.

'I have to keep you safe, John.' His voice is intense and distressed, and he is as frantic as John has ever seen him. John reaches up and clasps Mycroft's hands in his own.

'I know.' He replies.

He holds Mycroft's gaze steady with his own, his expression as calm and clear as he can make it, but it barely works and Mycroft's fingertips are dancing restlessly over John's skin and through his hair.

'I have a car outside. It's going to take you to a safe house until I can stop him.'

He doesn't say a name, but John knows who he means.

'You're not coming.' He states. Mycroft presses his forehead to John's, eyes squeezed shut and he takes a deep breath, making a concerted effort to calm himself.

'I can't, John. He needs to be stopped, and if I leave now that will never happen. But I need you to be safe. I can't do anything if you're not safe.'


Mycroft's mouth twists.

'I cannot send him away, and if I'm truthful I could use his help. He knows Moriarty's mind, he thinks like him. I can keep him safe with me, but I can't think clearly if you're there.'

John smiles slightly, watching as Mycroft pauses, takes a deep breath and pulls away. He opens the door, speaking quickly to someone standing outside, someone John hadn't even realised was there. The conversation is short and low and John can't hear what the men are saying, but then Mycroft steps back and

looks at John.

'Samuel will take you to the safe house,' he says, and John drags his gaze from Mycroft's face to nod at the man standing in the doorway. He's pretty non-descript; dressed in a suit with his dark hair cut short; someone John wouldn't look twice at if he passed him in the street, but he has no doubt that this man is deadly.

There has been a shift in the atmosphere, and John knows it's his cue to leave. His heart is racing in his chest, but his hands are steady and he takes a calm breath. He walks to the door, and pauses for a moment. He opens his mouth to speak, but Mycroft beats him to it.

'Not until this is finished.' Mycroft answers the question John hasn't asked. The words are expected, but unwanted and suddenly he finds it a little harder to breathe. He has seen Mycroft every day for the past three months; the thought that he won't see him for an undetermined amount of time rebels in his mind, but Samuel is suddenly blocking his view of Mycroft and he's herded towards the door at the end of the hallway. He catches one last sight of Mycroft, standing with the blue umbrella in his hand, and then he's gone.

The waiting car is black and ordinary, and he's pushed into the backseat. London passes in a blur as John sits and tries to catch his breath. The past hour has been an unreal blur, and John has suddenly found his life turned upside down yet again. He fights the wave of despair that tries to drag him under, focusing his eyes on the fading, flickering light through the passing trees.

He hasn't been told where he's going, but as the walls of concrete and brick transform into leaves and bark and endless fields, and the light fades to black, John leans his head back and closes his eyes.

Days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months. Time passes with John barely recognising it. The village he has been taken to is tiny and remote, and he thinks somewhere in the Peak District, although he doesn't know for certain. He buys food from the small shop a mile down the winding track, talks briefly to the locals, and walks deep into the countryside, stalked by a protective shadow. He has memorised the area like the back of his hand; the shallow, bubbling stream, the lone trees and bushes and the jagged remains of ancient buildings and walls.

Late summer has turned to winter, and the cold creeps through the cracks in the doors and windows. The landscape is bleak and empty and it reflects how John feels now.

It has been so long since he's seen Mycroft and Sherlock, John thinks he's forgotten what they look like. Some nights, cold and almost alone, John wonders if they ever existed; if his whole life in London was a figment of his starved imagination.

There has been no news; no hint of anything involving Sherlock, or Mycroft, or Moriarty, and John can't remember the last time he spoke their names. He shakes his head, trying to shake away the thoughts of a life so far in the past, and picks his way carefully across the precarious landscape

It's foolish, and John doesn't know why he's done it, but it's very early morning and Samuel still sleeps in the cottage back up the hillside. It's been so long since he's been truly by himself, and John breathes deeply in the freezing, crisp morning air, gaze alternating between the rocky ground under his feet and the clear pink sky above his head.

Pink sky at night; Shepherd's delight. Pink sky in the morning; Shepherd's warning.

The old saying pops into John's head, and for a moment he pauses, although he's not sure why. There is a flicker of unease in the back of his mind, and for the first time since he arrived in Upper Midhope, John has the sense that something is very wrong.

He turns, intending to head back to the cottage, but his gaze is caught by a smudge of black a way down the hill. For a moment he thinks it's Samuel, but the reassurance is brief. John has been living with Samuel for months and he knows the way the man moves; the figure slowly climbing his way up the hillside is not him.

For a second, John can't move. It's been so long since he's needed to think quickly and clearly, and it takes a moment for his brain to kick-start, but then it does, and he's moving. He's careful to walk quickly, but to appear unhurried, but then his foot catches and he stumbles, catching his wrist on the jagged rock.

The cut is small, but deep and the blood is already flowing between his fingers as he presses his hand to his wrist. Cursing, he hurries to his feet, risking a glance over his shoulder. The figure is closer now, close enough that John can tell he doesn't know him, but he's determinedly following in the footsteps of the doctor, and so John stumbles on.

It feels like a lifetime before he sees the cold brick of the cottage, but it gives him a renewed energy, and his weary legs move quicker. He's calling for Samuel even before he's through the door.

'Samuel! I think we need to leave.' The words are his first for days, and his voice is hoarse from lack of use, but he hurries up the stairs and clears his throat as he grabs a bag from the top of the wardrobe.


John has thrown several jumpers in to the bag before the silence hits him. He stops, and lets go of the jumper he's been folding and listens. There is literally nothing, and the sense of unease, previously wiped out from adrenaline, is back full force.

Carefully, and quietly, John turns and walks to the bedroom across the hall. The door is slightly ajar, and when John pushes it opens, his gaze is drawn straight to the figure on the floor.

The door swings shut behind him as John crosses the room in three strides. He bends to check Samuel's pulse, but the carpet is darkened and spongy with blood and it's obvious the man is dead.

There are footsteps in the hall, shattering the silence, and John slowly rises to his feet as the door creaks open.

He knows who it is even before the figure steps into the room, and he can only think that these lonely months have all been nothing.

'Good morning, Johnny-boy.'

That voice has haunted John's nightmares for months, and even after all this time, it sends a horrifying shiver down his spine.

Moriarty hasn't changed; his hair is cut short, his suit is sharp and pressed and immaculate. He is calm and collected and sure of himself, and John hates him for it. He hates him, because these past months have been filled with pain and loneliness; they've left John feeling empty, and it's been because of this man standing in front of him.

'How did you find me?'

John's words are harsh, and clipped, his body is tense, because the only way Moriarty can know where he is that John can think of is that something has happened to Sherlock or Mycroft, and for the first time in months, John is truly scared.

'Now, now John. No greeting? That's not very polite.'

Moriarty's words are mocking, his head is tilted to the side as he watches the doctor. He steps forward, and it takes all of John's self control to stay where he is.

Closer, John can see the insanity still ingrained behind Moriarty's eyes. There is nothing normal or sane or decent that John can appeal to.

'They've been so very clever,' Moriarty murmurs as he steps closer still, 'to hide you from me for so long. But to think that you could stay hidden forever; a bit silly, don't you think John?'

Moriarty pauses, as if actually waiting for John to answer, and he frowns when there is nothing but silence.

'Come now, Doctor Watson. Can we not hold a polite conversation? We have so much to catch up on.'

'How did you find me?'

John repeats his question, and Moriarty pouts. It's a strange expression on the face of a madman, John thinks.

'I know that isn't really what you want to know.' Moriarty leans closer, his mouth against John's ear, his breath warm against his skin.

'What you want to know is how Sherlock and darling Mycroft are. What you want to know is what I've done to get to you.'

Moriarty tilts his head, and presses his mouth against John's neck.

'What you want to know, Doctor Watson, is what is going to happen to you now.'

John remains silent, heart hammering inside his chest, but his mind is remarkably calm, and his hand has lost the tremor that had found it's way back over the last few months. There is a cold, hard pressure against his stomach, and he looks down. Moriarty is pressing John's gun against his old wound, and it takes less than a second for John to figure it out.

His eyes flick to the body on the floor, and Moriarty smiles coldly.

'Very good, John. But not very nice of you, was it? Shooting poor Samuel there, when all he has done is take care of you.'

There's a sudden noise; the front door opens, and slams, there are footsteps up the stairs and along the hall, and for a moment John allows himself to hope. That hope is dashed the moment Moriarty pulls away from him with a last soft press of his lips to John's skin, and turns to welcome the newcomer.

'Mr Moran. So glad you could make it.'

The man who enters the room is both familiar and not, and it takes John a minute to work out why. He's the man from the hillside; the way he moves, fluid and graceful, cannot be mistaken, but there's more. He's a local man from the village down the hill - someone John has seen at the shop, someone he's spoken to - and John feels sick to his stomach.

Moriarty has known where he's been for weeks now, perhaps months, and to John, it's horrifying because there must be a reason why Moriarty has made his move now.

John looks up to see Moriarty watching him, a look of sickening glee twisting his features.

'Not bad, John. You're quicker than I expected. Now, shall I let you in on a secret?'

Moriarty moves closer again.

'There's no one coming to save you.'

The words are whispered and quiet, but to John, they are screamed, and the world slows. He feels everything; the rush of air as Moriarty steps backwards; the anger - hot and intense - that coils low in his stomach, and then the sudden emptiness.

Moriarty laughs. It's a high pitched, insane-sounding giggle, but it's muffled, as though John is hearing it through water. His legs turn weak and he stumbles backwards; back hitting the wall with a thud.

Moriarty tilts his head, watching him, suddenly deadly serious.

'I told you I would break you, John Watson.' He says quietly, and as if those words are a cue, the man, Moran, steps forward.

He's a large man, heavily muscled, and John doesn't even try to struggle. His legs feel like lead as he's dragged forward. Moran doesn't even hesitate before throwing John bodily down the stairs.

If he could think anything, John would think it was lucky that the ceiling is low, and the staircase is small because he won't break anything, but he can't. The breath is forced from his body in a rush, and he coughs; gasping for air, hands clutching his stomach.

Moran moves slowly, gracefully, down the stairs. He's followed by Moriarty who's watching everything with an impassive look on his face. Moran pulls John to his feet.

'I'm going to take you somewhere.' Moriarty says, picking up a coat that's draped over the bannister and pulling the door open.

They are the last words anyone says for a long while. John focuses on his feet as he's half pushed, half dragged across the harsh and freezing landscape. The sky has clouded over and the temperature has plummeted, and John's breath mists in front of him as he staggers forward. Sweat freezes on his skin, and he's shivering through his thin jumper and jeans, but John focuses on the passing rocks and trees, and he finally realises where he's being taken.

He's proven correct when they crest over a hill and the land drops suddenly and sharply away a few feet further on. John sucks in a harsh, freezing breath and clenches his fists. If he's going to die like this, then he isn't going without a fight.

'Throwing me off a cliff. Not very criminal mastermind, is it?'

The words are mocking, and Moriarty turns to him with an expression akin to approval on his face.

'That's better, John. For a moment I thought you were going to be no fun at all.'

He turns back to the cliff-face, and tilts his head.

'And here's the second part to my secret. There is no one coming to save you because, unless I am sorely mistaken, they're currently chasing shadows across Switzerland.'

There's a sharp stab of emotion; a curious, painful mix of relief and horror, because Moriarty's plan is so clear and plain and John could cry. Sherlock is ok, Mycroft is ok, but John doesn't even want to think about what this is going to do to them.

Moriarty is speaking again, and John forces himself to listen.

'How do you think they'll feel, John?' the madman's voice is gleeful, and he's practically bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation.

'Do you think they'll cry? Cry as they think of poor Doctor John Watson, abandoned for months, walking to the edge of the cliff and never stopping. Do you think they'll cry when they find your broken body at the bottom, twisted and bloody and pathetic?'

John is shaking now, and he pulls sharply in Moran's grip.

'They won't believe this. I would never…'

But John's voice trails off, because he knows that Moriarty knows; He's stood on the edge of this cliff before, one evening a month into his solitude when he was drunk and angry and so full of pain that it made his whole body ache. It was Samuel who pulled him back, who dragged him away.

And if Moriarty knows, then so do Sherlock and Mycroft.

For the first time, John feels broken. Suicide. Mycroft will never forgive himself, and Sherlock will never understand why, and Moriarty will have won with one simple move.

There's a prod in his back, and John stumbles forward, inextricably closer to the sheer drop. He closes his eyes, trying to make his body limp because his brain is telling him that there is more chance of survival that way. He smiles bitterly though, because surviving this is not going to happen.

Another prod. Another stumble forward, and the rocks are crumbling under his feet. He braces himself, waiting for that final push, but it doesn't come. Instead, there's a sharp hiss of breath and John's eyes snap open.

He's no longer the focal point of Moriarty and Moran's attention, and as he twists his body around, he understands why. Casually striding forward is Sherlock Holmes; coat whipping behind him as he walks, and John thinks he might be the most beautiful sight in the world.

'Evening, Jim, Sebastian. John.' He calls, and John can barely contain the relief and elation he feels.

'You're late.' John calls back, voice shaking slightly, and Sherlock winks at him.

'Never, my dearest John.'

'Sherlock. What a…pleasant surprise.' Moriarty's words sound clipped, and John realises it's the first time he's ever seen the man on edge. For once, Moriarty is watching his plans crumble around him, and the expression on his face is horrifyingly insane.

'Jim, Jim, Jim.' Sherlock mocks, shaking his head as he walks forward. 'You didn't think it would be that easy did you? I'm offended. As if we'd be that easily fooled…' He trails off, and pauses thoughtfully.

'Well, Mycroft maybe, but myself? Really, Jim?'

Moriarty makes a visible effort to slide back into control, and he rocks back on his heels.

'And where is the older Holmes, Sherlock? Not too far away, I hope.'

He twirls John's gun casually around his finger, and John is suddenly very aware that Sherlock appears unarmed. The detective just smiles.

'Oh no, not too far at all. I believe Lestrade was just a little slow gathering the troops and he volunteered to speed things up a little. He should be here in ohh, lets say 4 minutes?'

John watches as anger twists Moriarty's features.

'Perfect. Just in time to watch his beloved doctor fall to his death.'

At his words, Moran takes a step closer to John, and Sherlock's face hardens.

'It is over, Jim.'

Moriarty laughs, that same high-pitched, insane giggle that sends shivers through John's body, and Sherlock's eyes flick briefly towards him. The months haven't taken away John's ability to read Sherlock's intentions in a single glance, and he knows exactly what the detective is going to do the moment before he does it.

There's a small moment of silence, then Sherlock moves. He's quick, and he takes Moriarty off guard, knocking him to the floor and sending John's gun spinning across the frozen ground.

It takes a moment before Moran makes his own move, but John is ready and he dives towards the gun. He's close, achingly so, and he stretches his fingers out to touch the cold metal, but there's a solid impact in his side as Moran crashes into him. His head cracks against rock, and for a moment he lies there, dazed and gasping, but Moran is off of him in a flash, and it's instinct that makes John grab his leg, sending the other man crashing to the ground.

In the background, John can hear muffled thuds and groans as Sherlock tries to subdue Moriarty, but all he can focus on is the sudden and familiar rush of adrenaline as he fights for his life. Scrambling to his feet, John makes another grab for his gun, only to be knocked sideways again as Moran takes advantage of the quite sizeable weight difference, and then he's suddenly sprawled on his back looking down the familiar barrel of his own weapon.

For a moment, there is absolutely silence in the frozen air, and then Moriarty laughs. He's bruised and bloody, and pinned under Sherlock, but the tables have once again turned, and the detective slowly pushes himself up to him feet.

Moriarty does too, dusting his suit down as he still laughs.

'Wonderful, Sherlock. And now after all of that pointless fun, you will watch John Watson die.'

Moran's finger tightens on the trigger and John sucks in a breath, but a painfully familiar voice cuts through the air and suddenly John can barely breathe. He twists his head, eyes wide and drinking in the sight of Mycroft Holmes walking towards them, umbrella swinging and what seems like the whole of Scotland Yard rushing after him.

Moriarty lets out a strangled, rage-filled cry as, finally, his plan crashes and burns.

'Fine. Fine, Mycroft Holmes. But live with the knowledge that this was your fault.'

And with that, he jumps at Sherlock. The world slows for a moment, and John lets out a horrified yell, but he can do nothing but watch as both men fall over the cliff edge.


John scrambles to his feet, barely aware of the policeman that disarms and drags Moran to the floor. He's at the edge of the cliff before he realises, on his hands and knees as he stares over the precipice, and a strange gurgling noise escapes his throat. He falls back, and covers his face with his hands as he begins to laugh.

Mycroft shoots him a worried look as he reaches the edge, but then his face relaxes and he smiles down into the irritated eyes of Sherlock Holmes as he clings to a narrow ledge a small way down the cliff face.

'A little help wouldn't go amiss.' The detective shouts up irritably, and Mycroft barely moves his hand to summon Lestrade to help before three policemen are there with rope and winches.

'Just hold on, Sherlock.' Mycroft calls down, and steps back from the edge before Sherlock's scathing reply can reach him. Instead, his eyes are now trained on John, who is still lying on the cold ground, hands covering his face, no longer laughing.

'John.' His voice is soft, and he takes a small step forward. He's tentative, as though he's approaching a skittish animal, and John thinks that maybe that's not too far from the truth as he takes his hands away from his face and watches the man above him.

'John, are you…'

'Don't.' John's voice is harsh as he interrupts Mycroft, and he pushes himself to his feet, never taking his eyes away from him.

'Don't pretend like you suddenly care how I am. You haven't cared at all for the last 3 months, why should now be any different?'

The words are flat and hard, and Mycroft flinches as though he's been struck, but for once John doesn't care as he presses his fingers to his temple in a vain attempt to halt the flashes of pain spiking from where he hit his head.

'John.' Mycroft's voice is pleading and he takes another step forward. 'I couldn't come, John. You know why. It was too dangerous, and he's been so close so many times. It has taken so much just to keep myself alive.'

At this, John raises his eyes and finally takes in Mycroft's ragged form; he's paler and thinner than the last time John saw him. There are tired-looking dark circles under his eyes, and he stands awkwardly, favouring one leg, and despite himself, John feels a jolt of concern.

'I nearly came here so many times, it was torture to know where you were and to not be able to even speak to you. And then he found you, and it took everything I had to not come straight to you. But it was our only chance to get to him. Please, John…'

The last two words are whispered, and Mycroft takes another step forward. John is vaguely aware in the background that Sherlock has been hauled back over the cliff edge, but then Mycroft steps again, and John can't bring himself to move away.

'I can't do this again.' John says finally, raising his eyes to meet Mycroft's, and the other man nods.

'Neither can I, John. But this is over now. It's finally over.'

And with those words, Mycroft closes the remaining distance and John is in his arms and the world falls back in to place.

They leave Sherlock and Lestrade to clean up the cliff face, and Mycroft bundles John towards the waiting 4x4. There are jumpers and socks and hot coffee waiting, and it doesn't take too long for John to warm up, wrapped as he is in Mycroft's arms.

The drive to the nearest town takes an hour, and not once does Mycroft let him go. The car comes to a stop outside a small house, and Anthea greets them at the door, an unusually welcoming smile firmly in place. They eat quickly; hot, filling soup and thick bread, barely taking their eyes off each other, and when John sips the last spoonful of soup from his bowl, he is pulled to his feet and up the stairs.

As soon as the door is closed behind them, John is pressed against it, Mycroft's mouth hot and demanding against his own. He pushes back, pulling Mycroft's body flush with his own and their touches are desperate: mapping and remembering skin with their fingers as clothes are pulled off and cast aside.

It's been far, far too long since John has felt this fire, and it burns him from the inside-out, dragging soft cries and moans from his mouth as they move and shift together.

Mycroft's fingers are long and buried deep within him, moving with a familiarity John thought he'd forgotten. Their movements are relentlessly desperate, hands never stopping, mouths sliding together. It doesn't last long - it was never going to - and their movements are frantic as Mycroft presses deeper into John's body.

John feels liquid fire burn through his veins as he comes, a wordless cry muffled against Mycroft's shoulder, eyes tightly closed as the feeling overwhelms him. Mycroft moves once, twice more, then he too stills, and the air is filled with their quiet gasps and clumsy kisses.

Even now, as Mycroft shifts his weight to the side, he doesn't let go of John, instead pressing his body along the curve of John's spine, and for the first time in months, John falls asleep with a smile on his face.

Sherlock watches his brother and flatmate sleep from the doorway, his expression a curious mix of distaste, relief and concern. The past few months have been hard on everyone; he's seen his brother lose that familiar spark that drove him to distraction, and he's seen the effect it's had on John.

He steps back, letting the door close softly behind him, and heads towards the bedroom across the hall. His news can wait until the morning, worrying as it is, because he and Lestrade and the entire team of inept police searched for hours, only to find nothing.

Moriarty had vanished.

A/N: sorry took me so long to post the last chapter! Hoped you all liked it anyways :-)