"That's... it. I suppose that's enough for an idea," Sherlock said, his heart racing in his chest as he finished his horrific story, the tears stinging in his eyes. He couldn't believe the cat was out of the bag. The entire embarrassing truth he had been hiding from John all this time was finally out in the open.

Throughout his narrative, he relived all those terrible things they had done to him at Appledore, images of their torture tactics and hideous grins flashing before his eyes, albeit not as vividly as during his actual imprisonment.

It wasn't easy for him, but he felt oddly... relieved.

Ever since his return, Magnussen had been breathing down his neck, feeding his psyche with self-loathing ideas, eroding his self-esteem, and reminding him of his flaws.

The venomous whispers subsided, and there was a glorious, peaceful quiet not just in his head but also after his lengthy statement, which was received with a suspicious silence.

"John, if you've fallen asleep again, then I'm afraid I won't find the courage to tell you a third time..." Sherlock noted. He halted in surprise, though, when he received an unexpected response.

It wasn't a sentence. Not even a word.

It was a quiet sniff.

"John?"

The detective addressed his friend a bit more gently and looked around.

John was staring at him with a peculiar expression on his face. His lips, curled into a faint smile, were trembling, and tears were glistening in his eyes, full of awe, adoration, and respect.

Tears? Why the tears? Shouldn't he be relieved to finally learn the truth?

Another wet gasp echoed through the room.

"I thought... when I came here... I blamed you for doing nothing but lazing about... And yet..."

One of the salty drops spilt over John's lower eyelid and rolled down his cheek. Sherlock turned around to face John and brushed it off with his thumb. Then he put his hand to the side of his face, tracing his finger over the sensitive skin beneath John's lower eyelids. He caressed his cheek with his thumb, drawing John's head closer until he saw himself in his glittering sclera. And at that very moment, he was certain he had done the right thing.

Knowing he didn't have to lie to those huge, innocent eyes washed away even the most obstinate traces of embarrassment from revealing Magnussen's perverted methods aloud.

He no longer had anything to hide from John, and to be honest, he didn't even want to.

Despite the fact that the idea of utter openness and honesty terrified him a bit, Sherlock wanted to share everything with John, whether it was his cup of morning coffee, his bed, or even his secrets that he had never told anybody.

So this is how love works? Is this what he's been missing his entire life?

He cupped his hand over John's other cheek and rested his forehead against John's.

"It's all right, John... I'm home and safe... We'll be together as long as you're willing to put up with me," he pledged in hushed whispers, tears streaming down his face in thin rivulets, though he wasn't quite sure what to say.

But he was certain of one thing.

Even though Sherlock had never come across a more devious person, he felt a twinge of gratitude. Not because of what Magnussen had done to him but because of what he had not done. The cruel businessman could have done much more to make his life a living hell.

Magnussen could have gouged his eyes out, and he'd never be able to investigate crimes the same way again. Sherlock would never see John's smile, the glimmer in his azure irises, or the beige tone of his skin.

He could have taken away Sherlock's hearing, and the detective would never hear a single note from his beloved violin, or John's laugh, his voice...

With horror, he realised Magnussen may have driven him insane, reducing his intelligence to the level of a two-year-old. At best, he wouldn't recall what he had lost. He would exist in his simplistic world, unable to comprehend why everyone around him seemed to have lost someone important to them.

At worst, he'd know. He'd have to live with the knowledge that his brilliance, which had once astounded everyone, had evaporated irreversibly like steam over a kettle. Instead of admiration, he would be greeted with looks of sadness and pity.

All of these scenarios were significantly more threatening than the love handles he'll be carrying for some time to come.

He could walk... see... hear... speak... deduce... and think!

For God's sake, he was alive!

And most importantly, he had John!

"I know many things have changed, but that doesn't matter. There is so much more we can do. We can still solve crimes. I'll go shopping, although I have no clue what those ridiculous shop aisles have to offer! And if it pleases you, I'll bring some body parts from the mortuary..."

Sherlock was babbling, but it couldn't bother him less. He never excelled in these wise discourses and soul-talking, nor did he acknowledge them. So senseless and sentimental... People often make hollow promises about things they don't even comprehend.

This time, though, it made sense because he meant it. Well, maybe he'll reconsider the shopping... But otherwise, he meant every word!

John let out an unexpected sob, and his warm breath caressed Sherlock's cheek. Wrapping his arms around Sherlock's torso, he pressed himself as close as he could. He was shivering all over, so Sherlock hugged him tighter, trying to come up with a way to calm John down. He couldn't think of anything, but in the end, it didn't matter.

There was a bubbling sound in his ear, and Sherlock realised that John wasn't trembling. John wasn't even weeping.

John was laughing. No, he was giggling uncontrollably.

Had he mentioned something amusing?

"What?" Sherlock asked, and his nose wrinkled in confusion. He was well aware of his lack of social skills, but he was doing his best. Was he indeed so hopeless?

John shook his head, drew back, and smoothed the wrinkles on Sherlock's furrowed brow with the tip of his index finger. Then he passionately kissed Sherlock on the lips. "Nothing; it's more like I should be consoling you, not the other way around," he murmured, a little short of breath.

"Oh, please, normalcy is not for us..." Sherlock countered with a mischievously arched eyebrow, bringing John closer for another kiss.

"I suppose you're right," the doctor replied, fulfilling Sherlock's nonverbal demand. "Oh, and I wouldn't recommend storing your experiments near the food. Otherwise, I'll throw it out without mercy," he threatened playfully between sensual nibbling of their lips.

Unfortunately, John withdrew sooner than Sherlock would have liked. "Is that... monster dead?" he asked, all serious again, and his voice hardened.

Sherlock swallowed. Even now, weeks, if not months later, his body has responded involuntarily to the simple mention of him. And John never even pronounced his name. The mere thought of that man was enough to make his insides squirm into anxious knots.

"Yes, Mycroft... took care of him," he explained at last, keeping his words as vague as possible for fear of causing Mycroft difficulties...

John, noticing his hesitation, reached out for his hand, taking it in his own and intertwining his fingers. "He's lucky then because I would have found him myself!" he growled.

"Found..." Sherlock repeated, deep in thought.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's face lit up, as it often did when a good idea or a promising logical hypothesis popped into his head.

"Found!" he cried excitedly, grasping both sides of his partner's jaw and kissing his forehead with a loud smack. "I think I know how Mycroft knew where to look for me!" he said as he spotted John's perplexed expression.

"Through cameras? Or a mobile phone?" John pondered, his cheeks rosy.

Sherlock shook his head, trying not to roll his eyes. "Hardly! Keep up, John, every electronic device was at Magnussen's command..."

And he was standing up and making his way over to the fireplace.

He pulled the knife from the mantelpiece and picked up the letter he had been dreading opening since Mycroft had given it to him. Despite not having seen the sender, he had a fair sense of who it came from and what they had to say.

Eager to learn the truth, he slipped his fingernail under the white paper and opened the envelope. He withdrew a folded piece of paper, which was covered with black, semi-cursive handwriting.

Hi.

I guess I'm probably one of the last people you'd like to get a flower and a letter from, but please read what I have to say before you become furious.

I know how it must have appeared at the time, and I'm sorry for making you believe that I had betrayed you.

There was no other way; I couldn't tell you anything because the less you had known, the better. We couldn't risk them forcing you to spill the beans, which would derail the entire plan.

Magnussen was an incredibly suspicious man, and I couldn't afford to take such a risk. But, as the saying goes, the darkest place is under the candlestick. That's why I fooled him into thinking I'd win your trust, then betray you to make you doubt yourself, making it easier for him to extort information from you.

If you still don't believe me, have a look at the included envelope, which I sent through your brother. I believe I don't have to explain what the cyphers mean.

Don't be angry with him; we both agreed that you needed a break from all that had happened. He didn't tell you about me because he was afraid it would upset you.

Furthermore, I wanted to explain it to you myself, even if only in the form of a letter.

I can't show up in England for a while. Fortunately, as a thank you for helping save your life, Mycroft assisted me in forging paperwork and even paid for my wife's treatment. He's a very good man, and so are you.

Now I'm living in America with my family under a false identity, but we're hoping to return to England once things settle down.

Hopefully, we'll meet again someday.

I've heard about what happened to you. I wish you a speedy recovery and hope to see you back in action soon. I'm sure England demands its greatest detective!

It was a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock Holmes.

Jack Jones

PS: Have you finally told John how you feel about him? :)

Despite knowing what to anticipate, Sherlock would be lying if he said the letter from Jack Jones did not surprise him.

"Jack did not betray me... He saved me," he muttered, still stunned by the new information.

With conflicting emotions, Sherlock twisted the paper between his fingers. On the one hand, he felt irritated and slightly embarrassed that Jones and Mycroft had withheld such vital information from him. He should have heeded his gut instinct about Jones! He should have relied on his judgement, on himself!

The sensible half of his brain, however, reminded him that he had no reason to be upset with them. They both meant well. If Magnussen had even the slightest clue that Jones had switched sides, or if Sherlock had accidentally revealed it during one of their brutal interrogations, they'd both be in tremendous trouble. Not to mention he probably wouldn't let Mycroft say a word about his stay at Appledore had their talk drifted to this topic.

Besides, it suggested that he wasn't mistaken. He had properly read Jones! And this thought outweighed all of the drawbacks.

"But you said he ran away," replied John, only a few steps away.

With a tiny jolt, Sherlock snapped back to reality. John's proximity caught him off guard; he didn't even notice John approaching him. He must have gone further into thought than he had intended.

"He wanted it to seem that way... so no one would suspect us of plotting against them. He sent a code to Mycroft," he said, reaching into the envelope and taking out a piece of paper and some fluffy fuzz.

John blinked in surprise. "That's your—"

"Hair," Sherlock finished as he eyed the black locks in his palm.

"He must have cut a chunk of my hair and put it in an envelope, most likely to convince Mycroft that he wasn't making things up. "And here," he handed John a scrap of paper, "- is a mathematical equation that, when solved, gives you Appledore's coordinates. "That's how Mycroft and Lestrade found me and came to my rescue..."

"So if it wasn't for Jack..." John began and swallowed.

Sherlock nodded. "Perhaps I'd still be sitting there right now..." he finished, shuddering at the thought. "That is if I hadn't eaten myself to death..."

There was a long, heavy silence, and Sherlock realised he should have stayed silent.

Death, it seemed, was not an appropriate topic for jokes, especially when it came to John. "I'm sorry; it was meant to brighten the mood..."

The doctor smiled and caressed Sherlock's face from temple to chin. "It's not about that... You know, you're the smartest person I've ever met. But do you remember what you said about heroes? You said that you wouldn't be one of them if they existed. That's where you were wrong. I'm just looking at one...."

There was nothing more to add. The look on John's face said it all.

I'm so proud of you for finding the courage to tell me. You're the bravest man I've ever met. I know you still don't believe me, but you're stunning. Without you, my life has no meaning. I want to grow old with you. But first, we'll be solving crimes, drinking English tea, and arguing about who gets to do the laundry - even though it'll be me in the end...

Sherlock's conjunctiva pricked with tears, and he had to blink to clear his vision.

"I love you," he murmured, and the words he couldn't express the previous day came as naturally to him as his own name. Because he actually meant them.

John had impressed him from the first minute they met. So normal, yet so unlike those goldfish, as Mycroft referred to ordinary people. On the outside, he appeared to be a calm, good-natured doctor, but in his heart, he was a courageous and devoted soldier.

John was the only one who tried to understand him. He made no attempt to mould him into certain societal conventions. John guided him but never forced him to change.

He was staring at him with such adoration and respect that it took Sherlock's breath away. As if Sherlock was his entire world. As if he couldn't imagine his existence without him.

Then John's mouth curled into a wide, genuine smile.

"I love you," he whispered softly before getting on his tiptoes, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck, and kissing him.

"John..." Sherlock gasped, sliding his arms around his waist and drawing him close, all previous concerns about his size forgotten. All that remained was the longing desire to never let John go. Stay with him forever. Or, at the very least, for as long as John wants him to.

Following this encouragement, John softly kneaded his broad shoulders before running his hands up, over his long throat, and to his face. He didn't linger long before slipping his fingers into his brown mane and scooping up handfuls of gorgeous, expensively cared-for curls.

Sherlock parted his lips and drew a shaky breath. His scalp has always been extremely sensitive, usually to the point that he couldn't tolerate having someone touch his hair. But John had become such an exception in so many ways that he'd lost count, and a touch that would have annoyed him from anybody else aroused something immensely pleasurable, electrifying, maybe even stimulating.

Without particularly noticing, Sherlock let his hands roam over John's body and—

Rumble.

Sherlock clenched John's shirt a little more than necessary, but in his defence, the sound from the pit of his stomach caught him off guard. And most likely John as well, for he stiffened slightly and took a little step back, trying to figure out how to save Sherlock from this awkward situation before he freaked out.

Much to John's—and especially his own—amazement, Sherlock dealt with it himself.

"Have I told you that you can tell a good Chinese restaurant by the door handle?" he asked, the seriousness of his voice fading as John broke into a broad smile.

Sherlock burst out laughing, a stream of giggles pouring from his lips. It sounded a bit frantic at first, but as John soon joined him, the anxiety faded away, leaving just joy at John's acceptance of him for who he was.

They were still entwined in an affectionate hug in front of the fireplace, their faces inches apart, their chests vibrating with mirth. Sherlock hadn't been this joyful in a long time, and it appeared that neither had John. Well, it was time to make up for all they'd both gone through.

"You meant to say by the bottom third of the door handle..." John panted, struggling for breath.

Sherlock smacked his lips in appreciation. "Oh, I see you were paying attention, then... Kung-pao?" he suggested.

John beamed at him, drawing his phone from his pocket and browsing the website of their favourite Chinese restaurant. After all, they both deserved some guilty pleasure today, right?

AN:

And the cat is out of the bag! I'm so proud of Sherlock for overcoming his fears and telling John the truth. What are your thoughts? I hope you still like the story despite the serious theme.
BTW, only one chapter to go!

Yours,
Pauline🖤