ASDFGHJKL; I just found out Martin Freeman sang a song for a movie and it's the cutest thing ever! The song's called 'One Love' and it's incredibly catchy. I fangirled for thirty minutes and added the song to my iPod. :')

So. This is the last chapter. Hooray! It's the longest one, too. I don't know how it ended up like this.

Thank you so much for the reviews and the support. It meant a lot to me, and it was terrific fun writing this story. :)

Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss created BBC!Sherlock. They, like millions of other people like me, are using Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's property for fanfiction.

Beta'd by virginger but not Brit-picked.

And just because I can: bingle-bongle, dingle-dangle; yickety-doo, yickety-ta; ping-pong, yipee-tappy-too-ta.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson giggled. "Inspector, I found them!"

DI Gregory Lestrade heard the elderly landlady from upstairs cooing like a mother would with her child. Was Sherlock doing something cute?! Lestrade hurried up the stairs to check.

"Keep it down, young man, or you'll wake them up!" she whispered chidingly, but she motioned for him to walk faster towards her.


Lestrade stopped in his tracks and shamelessly stared at the sight in front of him. He didn't know how to explain it, and he had for the time-being forgotten all about the case. If Lestrade didn't know any better, he'd say that John and Sherlock were spooning on a bed.

Sherlock was facing the left side of the room, one arm lazily draped over John. His other arm was outstretched and being used as a pillow for his friend's head. John, on the other hand, was curled up into a little ball. They were both lightly snoring.

From beside Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson muffled a squeal. She had her hands clasped under her chin and was staring at them fondly. She caught Lestrade's bemused expression. "Close your mouth, dearie, you're going to catch flies! Oh, do we have to wake them up? Poor dears didn't even hear me knock."

"Not yet, we won't," Lestrade said affirmatively and seriously. He whipped up his camera phone from his pocket. "Not when an opportunity like this comes up once in a lifetime."

"Oh, are those one of those little camera phone things? Can I have a copy?" Mrs. Hudson asked, looking hopefully at the inspector.

"Sure thing, Mrs. Hudson," Lestrade whispered back, snapping the perfect picture. Perfect blackmail material right there.

A movement on the bed – Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade stopped moving. They didn't even breathe.

"Sh'lock?" John called out, surprised when he felt a warm body pressed against his back. He must have climbed in while he was sleeping, John thought. Does he have to sleep so close to me? One thing the former military captain learned from sleeping with Sherlock was that his lack of respect for someone's personal space when he was awake was multiplied ten times more when he was asleep. He subconsciously moved away from Sherlock.

"Mmm," Sherlock mumbled numbly.

"Were you just talking to me?" John asked.

Sherlock mumbled a negative string of incoherent noises.

"What? I – " John stopped talking, sitting up from his comfortable position. He then froze, staring at the two people in front of him. He was definitely wide awake now.

"Oh, no…" Mrs. Hudson started.

"Sherlock, Sherlock!" John whispered loudly, violently shaking the detective from his stupor. "Wake up!"

Sherlock groaned, facing the other way and trying to go back to sleep. John shoved him off the bed.


"Morning, sleepyheads – or afternoon, rather. Did you have a nice nap?" Lestrade greeted satisfyingly, enjoying Sherlock falling off the bed (he had been wanting to push him off of something for years). John had an interesting mixture of horror and desperation written across his face as he hopped off the bed like it was the plague. His eyes flitted between Lestrade and Sherlock, the former's smirk becoming increasingly wider. "As much as I'd like to find out more of what you've been doing here, we've got a killer to catch. The suspect moved out of his flat, and I'd like this case over and done with."

"Ugh, of course you wouldn't have gotten there in time. Am I right in assuming Donovan and Anderson are having another of their petty fights?" Sherlock scoffed and sat up on the floor, hair sticking out in a million directions. "How dull their lives must be." He picked himself up from the floor all the while glaring at his flatmate.

"Yes, well, not everyone can be like you, Sherlock," Lestrade answered. He mentally shuddered at the thought of two Sherlocks running around London."So are you coming or not?"

John Hamish Watson never did feel comfortable whenever people talked about him. He was very aware that there will never be a shortage of people who do. John knew exactly what they (and by they, he means the local detectives at New Scotland Yard and overeager journalists) were talking about – his relationship with his flatmate was far from ordinary, and he also knew that the bond he had with Sherlock was far stronger than the bonds brothers or sisters had with each other.

How strong the bond between said flatmate and the British Government is completely irrelevant.

So if one ever questioned his sexuality and whether or not he slept with Sherlock Holmes, he or she would get (along with an exasperated glare and/or a quick eye-roll) a quick negative response from the former RAMC Captain.

John Watson had never slept with Sherlock Holmes. Never ever ever. And never will, thank you very much. John Watson would gladly attest to all of that.

That was where the good doctor found himself at the present moment – sitting in the back of a squad car, Sherlock Holmes beside him looking bored and Gregory Lestrade looking at him teasingly from the rearview mirror.

"So, are you guys a thing now?" the inspector questioned. The thought of John and Sherlock fooling around on a bed suddenly become the forefront in his mind, and he fought to shove it (and a rather strong urge to gag) back into his brain's recesses.

"We're not actually gay, Greg," said John, hoping Lestrade would accept the explanation and leave it at that.

"Yes. Apparently, we just like sleeping with each other," Sherlock commented absentmindedly, staring out of the window.

John glared at Sherlock. "That's not helping any matters, mate."

"Wait, you mean you've slept with each other before?" Lestrade pointed at the both of them from the mirror. He was, quite frankly, shocked that he hadn't noticed.

"We haven't had sex if that's what you mean, Lestrade." John's face had gone considerably paler as Sherlock answered the inspector's question. "There's a big difference between sleeping with each other and sleeping with each other. We've done the former on multiple occasions, yes, but never the latter. John's tendency to deny a possible homosexuality can testify to that."

"They don't count! They never mattered," the doctor added lamely. John could feel Sherlock freeze up beside him. John presumed it was because of his significant lack of eloquence that particular moment.

The inspector looked between the both of them in disbelief and amusement. "How many times?"

"Including that nap? Four," John replied. Has it really been that many times? Good God.

Lestrade was silent. "...and during those times, did you just happen to fall on the bed together, or...?"

"Well, it's not like we slept together on purpose. There were... certain circumstances, and we felt that sleeping beside each other would make things better... oh, God." John shut his eyes. It sounded much, much better in his head. "Look, the point is this: we're not actually gay, and I highly doubt we'll ever go down that road. I like women. And Sherlock, well..." He wildly gestured towards Sherlock, looking pleadingly at Lestrade.

Lestrade caught his look. "Don't worry, mate. I believe ya," he told him, opting to refrain from adding 'doesn't mean I don't think it's weird' at the end of the sentence. John looked relieved that the topic was now resolved. Sherlock still looked bored, albeit a little tense. Lestrade grinned. "Don't think I'm going to let this go, though."

"Didn't think you would." John rolled his eyes and buried his face in his hands as Lestrade let out a guffaw. The inspector gave John a teasing wink when the doctor looked up to scowl at him.

The car rolled to a stop in front of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock didn't waste any time getting out of the car and heading upstairs. John, meanwhile, stayed behind and looked at Lestrade. "Listen, mind not telling anyone about this?"

"It's not me you should be worried about, John. Mrs. Hudson was in the room, too, you know."

John paled. "Mrs. Hudson!"

Lestrade laughed at the good doctor's discomfort. "Yeah. Listen, you up for a pint tomorrow? I'd do it tonight, but paperwork's gonna be sure hell after this case. Not to mention Anderson and Donovan are still fighting."

"Yeah, sure," John muttered distractedly. Damn it. Mrs. Hudson!

"Great. See you later, then, mate. Have fun with Sherlock tonight." The inspector gave him a flirtatious wink and a laugh before driving off. John stood on the sidewalk for a few seconds longer before turning around and following Sherlock to the flat.

By the time John arrived upstairs, Sherlock was already seated by the kitchen table poring over his experiment (didn't I throw that toenail-yoghurt experiment months ago?). Used to the lack of acknowledgement from his flatmate by now, John sat down on his usual chair and opened up his laptop.

Meanwhile, Sherlock tried his best to remain focused on his experiment but found it hard to do so. Thoughts and memories whirred tirelessly in his mind as he came to grips with what John had said in the cab.

They never mattered.

It had startled Sherlock more than it should have, too, and he couldn't for the life of him understand the feelings he was possessing that moment. Sherlock would have liked nothing more than to delete the thought from his metaphorical hard drive, but a question that made his insides burn kept popping up to drag his attention back to itself.

Does John value me less than I do him?

Preposterous. Having grown up with only himself to confide in, Sherlock was used to being alone. It was a handful of cards he had learnt to deal with, so why had he become so bothered over what John had said? Why was it different this time around?

Because John was the only friend that mattered to him, Sherlock supposed. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were his friends, yes, but they weren't John – they weren't the ones who knew things about his life that even his own brother didn't know. It would be a sad day indeed if Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson left his life, but a life without his blogger almost seemed unbearable for the detective. He had experienced it himself – the three years Sherlock spent away from 221b were one of the unhappiest in his life, running and hiding and leaving the one and only man who had truly accepted him and become his friend. Sherlock resolved to never experience that again.

So when Sherlock thought back to when John had said that the times they confided in each other didn't matter, he surprisingly realized that the feeling he was possessing was hurt. It is truly a hard pill to swallow when a friend you highly value doesn't reciprocate and/or chooses to remain oblivious. The consulting detective didn't know how to fathom this information – something he was definitely not used to experiencing.

His thoughts are cut off by a loud outtake of breath from John Watson as he sat upon the seat across Sherlock. He offers the detective a steaming mug of Earl Grey.

"Alright, Sherlock, something's bothering you," John says, blowing on his own tea's surface. He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock questioningly. "You may be an expert at reading other people, Sherlock, but I'm quite an expert at reading you, so I know when you're bothered about something you can't quite comprehend. Is this about feelings and sentiment? Maybe I can help?"

Sherlock frowned. He didn't recall having any tells. How had John realized that he was bothered? "Nothing's bothering me, John," he lied.

It was John's turn to frown. Sherlock had never lied to him before (not counting lies that brought about danger, embarrassment, anger or exasperation upon the doctor, anyhow). The detective was always honest towards him, so the issue troubling Sherlock must be about him. "Hey, there's no use lying to me about it, Sherlock. You can tell me. Did I do something wrong?"

Sherlock regarded him carefully, but chose to remain silent. John was going to have to figure it out all on his own.

The soldier browsed through his head (lovingly dubbed his 'Mind Junk Shop' by Sherlock Holmes as it was, in his words, 'filled with useless things with a dash of something useful here and there if you looked close enough') and recalled what he had done or said in the past two hours. There wasn't a lot to remember, really – the only slightly significant event that had occurred was the dreaded talk with Lestrade, and even then it was the usual. Sherlock sitting still in the cab, explaining what had happened (eloquently); him panicking in the cab, also explaining what had happened (not so eloquently). John remembered Sherlock tensing up when he told Lestrade the events didn't count or mat –

Oh. John thought. That was certainly possible – highly improbable, yes, but possible.

When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

If anyone had ever told John that he'd end up apologizing to the great consulting detective for hurting his feelings, the doctor would've thought them mental. Sherlock was always so detached from his emotions – it took a lot for the consulting detective to let some of it go. John then realized with a start that for someone to get hurt by others, he or she had to care deeply about them first and value their opinion. Knowing the depth of loyalty and love that hid behind Sherlock's mask made John inwardly smile, and (not for the first time) he sees more of the good man than the great one.

The doctor wished he hadn't had to cause Sherlock some mild distress before seeing it, though.

"I'm sorry for what I said in the car, Sherlock." John said. He couldn't help but feel rejuvenated at the revelation he had just made, however.

Sherlock remained stoic and silent.

"I didn't mean it that way. It was an honest slip of the tongue. You're my best friend, Sherlock; of course you matter," John reassured. Sherlock's shoulders relaxed slightly. "And don't get me wrong, mate, I like spending time with you; I would just prefer it outside the bedroom."

John thought back to the four encounters they had had so far and remembered the accidental kicks (Mycroft wasn't lying), hardcore cuddles (Sherlock slept like a leech) and slaps to the face (fetch me my revolver, John!) he had suffered at the hands of the lanky detective. "I hate sleeping with you, mate – you're impossible to sleep with; did you know that?"

Sherlock tried to hide a smile. "My brother may have mentioned that fact once, yes."

John regarded his current situation. He was discussing bedroom antics with Sherlock bloody Holmes. John started laughing at the absurdity. Sherlock followed suit and quickly started chuckling as well, baritone voice mixing in with John's husky laughter. Each look they shared as they laughed sprouted another fresh bout of chuckles reverberating around the room. In the end, Sherlock ended up leaning backwards against air on his seat while John bent forward, head resting on his open palm.

"Christ, Sherlock," John said, still chortling. "No wonder people think we're gay – just look at us!"

Sherlock scrunched up his face and did a perfect imitation of Greg Lestrade. "So, are you guys a thing now?"

"Wait, you mean you've slept with each other before?" John retaliated, exaggerating a shocked face.

The two burst out laughing again. They were interrupted by a knock on their door.

"Yoohoo!" Mrs. Hudson shuffled into the room armed with a platter of biscuits. She gave her lodgers a motherly smile reminiscent of one whose child was going on their first date. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything! I just thought you'd like a few biscuits before going to bed."

Sherlock and John pretended not to hear the sly undertone in her voice as she wiped her hands on her apron innocently.

"Have you got any milk?" she asked.

"No, we've run out," John answered, glaring disbelievingly at Sherlock. Why do we always run out?

"Oh, don't worry, dear. I think I've got some in the fridge. Let me just get it, I'll be back in a tick," replied Mrs. Hudson. She gave them a faint, giddy squeal before heading downstairs.

John waited until the footsteps died down before speaking. "I don't know about you, Sherlock, but I'm not telling her we're not actually gay," he whispered urgently.

"What makes you think I'll tell her?"

"Well, one of us is gonna have to tell her."

"You're by far the best candidate."

"Well, you're a git and I suffer on a daily basis because of you; you could at least do this for me, Sherlock."

"That's hardly a valid reason."

"It is for me. You tell her!" John gave his flatmate a look, hoping that it would convince him to do what he says. Sherlock looked ready to retort, so John gave him an offer he knew Sherlock would consider. "I'll release all limits on your experiments for a week."

Sherlock's eyes widened. Then they narrowed. "This is Mrs. Hudson we're talking about, John. She's probably planning our nonexistent wedding as we speak! I'm going to need a lot more than that."

Damn. "You can play the violin at any time." Sherlock's eyes widened imperceptibly. John knew Sherlock was on the verge of accepting his offer and gave the final proverbial nail on the coffin. "And you can have one cigarette."

The consulting detective's breath hitched.


"I'm back with the milk, boys!" Mrs. Hudson huffed as she reached the landing for the second time. She looked happily between the two men as she placed the bottle of milk on the kitchen table beside the plate.

"Actually, Mrs. Hudson, I think I'll be heading off to bed now. I've had a rough day. I'm sure Sherlock would be more than delighted to eat with you, however." John gave Sherlock a saccharine smile as he said so. His eyes relayed a completely different message, though. Break her heart and I'll break your spine. And leave me some biscuits and milk, will you?

"Oh, of course, dearie. You've had a long day, haven't you?" the landlady tutted at him. "You have a good night, now."

"Yes, John, have a good night. Don't stay up too late; I'll be joining you later." Sherlock said, feigning domesticity. The detective gave him a little flirtatious wave. John was horrified. Mrs. Hudson looked ready to faint.

Dear God, the bastard.

But John found that he wouldn't change his life for the world.

a.) I'm not gonna lie. When I first started writing the story, I didn't know how I'd end it at all. It was spontaneous all throughout, so I'm sorry if I've disappointed some.

b.) The thing about valuing friends more than they do for you is quite real and personal. I've experienced it.

c.) There's a quote in here loosely based on a passage from "The Three Garridebs" in here. Cookies to the people who know which one it is!

d.) There's a paraphrased quote from "The Sign of the Four" in here as well. It's a bit obvious.

Huzzah! The End!
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