This is just something I wrote a couple weeks ago and posted on ao3 and I forgot I did not post it here at the same time! To those who follow my RLNT fics... yeah... this sort of just happened.

I don't own Sherlock. But it is one of the few franchises that I can actually write fast enough to be a part of!

Just over six months after Sherlock's departure, Mycroft came to visit John. It was a rainy, easy day, the sort of day he should find infuriatingly dull. Since the birth of Willa, however, he had come to relish to days spent at home with his wife and daughter. He was perfectly content to lounge in his sitting room chair bouncing Willa on his knee while a strong easterly wind threw rain against the window pane.

A knock on the door drew his attention for a moment, but when Mary called, "I'll get it!" from the hall he returned his attention to the baby in his arms, only half listening to Mary fumbling with the door latch. Before the visitor could even say a word, he heard Mary gasp, "No!" There was a slight pause, then Mary's cry of

"You bastard!" punctuated with a slap.

John placed Willa in the bassinet and ran to the foyer to help Mary.

John's heart dropped to the pit of his stomach at the tableau before him. May was stood by the door, her head in her hands, and Mycroft awkwardly patted her shoulder. Mycroft should not be here, had not spoken to them in months. He would not be here at all, unless...

"I'm afraid I have bad news, John. It is about Sherlock."

John felt faint. He grabbed the table for support and Mary rushed to his side. "I'm okay," he muttered. "We can talk in here." He walked unsteadily to the sitting room and indicated a chair for Mycroft. The sight of the posh git in his middle class suburban sitting room gave John a perverse urge to laugh. The grave expression on Mycroft's face put an end to that. "Some privacy, please, Mrs. Watson." Mary nodded and gathered Willa into her arms before retreating to the upstairs nursery.

"No," John interrupted, "Mary should stay. He... I don't know... She was his friend, too. He would want her to know... Whatever it is."

Mycroft nodded. "Very well. Mrs. Watson," he gestured Mary toward the sofa, if somewhat reluctantly.

Mary sat next to John, tucked under his arm so that the baby was between them. John needed this. He needed someone to prop him up.

"You named the baby Willa," Mycroft observed, "After William, I presume."

John nodded, "It was Mary who insisted, actually. We were talking about naming her Grace for most of the pregnancy, but after what Sherlock did... She changed her mind. Obviously couldn't actually name her Sherlock..." John trailed off.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Well, the news does, in fact, pertain to what my brother did. My brother..." He paused, squinting his eyes momentarily, "Sherlock is dead," he choked. John did not quite know what to do in the face of such a non-Holmsian display of grief. He knew this time it was real, without a doubt. Tears of true sorrow ran down Mycroft's cheeks, and John could feel them on his, too.

"What... what happened?"

"Sherlock was allowed to do work for MI6 in lieu of being tried for murder and treason and sentenced to prison for the rest of his natural life. He knew... We both knew... that he would not survive."

"You sent your own brother on a suicide mission?" John spat, "What sort of inhuman bastard are you?"

"A merciful one!" Mycroft answered defensively, "I know it may astound you, but even my power has its limits. Sherlock shot Magnussen in cold blood in front of dozens of witnesses. He brought a laptop of government secrets to a meeting with a blackmailer. I could not make the consequences of these crimes disappear, I could only modify them. I did what was best for him. Sherlock's mind would not have survived prison. He would have attempted escapes out of sheer boredom. Within two years he would be reduced to spending his days in a high security mental institution, either heavily sedated, restrained to his bed, or both. We both know he would be horrified if his transport outlived his brain. It is far better that he died this way-solving puzzles and doing the work he loved. Surely I am not too despicable for saving him."

John could see it in his mind. Sherlock, dead in all but body, pale and drawn in a hospital bed. Perhaps he would be aware of his former brilliance, but would never be able to approach it again. Maybe he would not even remember his own name... not remember John. It was a terrible picture. John would not wish such a fate on his worst enemy, much less his best friend. He knew Mycroft was right, no matter how painful it was.

"You... I can see that you were right to offer this alternative. Sherlock chose this, right? He was given a choice?"

"I may have attempted to influence much of my brother's life but even I would not presume to dictate his death."

"Good... That is for the best, I believe." He began to cry then, and could not make himself feel ashamed.

"He asked me to give you something, in case of his passing. I will give to you now, if you choose." Mycroft pulled a sealed envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to John who accepted it with trembling hands.

"A letter?"

"Yes. Sherlock said that he did not say goodbye to you properly and wanted nothing left unsaid. He gave it to me and instructed me to give it to you only if he was certainly gone. I am afraid I am certain."

"Do you... Did you find a body?"

"Yes," Mycroft answered quietly, "He... it is being transported back to England. He said he would like it to be buried under the same headstone."

John studied the envelope in his hands quietly then spoke with a shaky voice. "Just one more... one more question please. Did he die alone?"

"John, I don't see..."

"Did. He. Die. Alone?"

"Yes," Mycroft admitted quietly, "His handler sent a team after him as soon as she realized there was trouble, but she was too late. He had died mere hours before their arrival."

"Why weren't you his handler?" Mary accused, breaking her silence.

"It would not have been appropriate.."

"You were covering your ass!" Mary accused.

"Let's not forget whose indiscretions caused all if this. Sherlock did not die because he was protecting me."

"Don't you put this all on me, Mycroft Holmes!" Mary shouted in a hushed voice so as not to wake Willa, "Maybe he wouldn't have had to protect anyone if you had taken out a madman who was blackmailing half of England! And I didn't hear you complaining about my indiscretions when I was doing your wet work!"

"You lost any right to my mercy and protection when you took it upon yourself to shoot my brother. Congratulations, Ms. Watson. It seems as though you succeeded. No more consulting detective muddling up your quiet retirement, running off with your husband..."

Mary's face drained of color. "I didn't mean to..."

"I think that is quite enough," John shouted, making Willa cry out, "We all lost someone dear to us. Blaming each other will not bring him back. Mycroft, if you can't be civil, you need to leave."

Mycroft opened his mouth as if to say something, but Mary cut him off. "I need to go upstairs to give Willa her feeding and put her down for a nap anyway. I will go."

"Mary…" John started, reaching for her hand.

She have his fingers a light squeeze with the hand that was not holding Willa to her chest. "It is fine," she smiled, "You talk to Mycroft for a while. You are right. We both just want someone to blame." With that, she walked out of the room, cooing softly to the baby in her arms.

The room was silent as John and Mycroft seemed fixated on different knick knacks scattered about the room. Mary's footfalls on the steps faded, and John could hear her cross the small hallway to the nursery and settle into the rocking chair. It was so ordinary and comforting. He cleared his throat and turned to face Mycroft again. "So, how are you holding up? He was my best friend, but he was your brother."

Mycroft tried to smile, but it looked more like his mouth was having a rather painful spasm. "Me? I don't really know. I am leaving just after this to go tell Mummy and Father the news."

"They don't know yet?" John asked. Mycroft looked at him in a way painfully similar to the way Sherlock would before saying Not good?

"I just found out for sure last night. Then there were arrangements to make… I did not think this was something to share on the phone, and had to pass this way before I left anyway so I stopped by here. If I am perfectly honest, I don't want to tell them. Sherlock is still alive for them."

"It is understandable, but they need to know."

"Yes. Well, I better be off. Father likes to sleep early in the evening." Mycroft stood and pulled his rain coat closer around himself. John stood to see him out. They both stood awkwardly on the front stoop for a few moments, looking out into the rain. Finally, Mycroft spoke. "Is it easier this time?" he asked.

"I'm sorry?"

"Is it easier to find out this time? You have been here before. Does it get any better?"

Mycroft looked out over the small suburban street pensively. John followed his line of sight, just for something to do. Finally he found some sort of answer.

"I wouldn't say it is easier… I don't think it has really sunk in yet to be honest. As for getting better… Yes, it does. It hurts like hell, so much that you can't think of anything else, but thinking about it hurts even more than not. Then, maybe you realize you were able to go a whole day without thinking about it, and then it kills you all over again. These days get more and more frequent, and the guilt over letting go gets less and less. One day you can think about the good things too, the happy memories without feeling overwhelming grief. Then you have accepted it, and 'moved on,' but nothing is ever the same again. Maybe you come across something—a really interesting case maybe—and you think 'Sherlock would love this,' only to remember he is gone. It doesn't get better, you just get used to it."

"Yes, I suppose you are right," Mycroft paused, continuing to stare into the rain, "I really must go now and let Father and Mummy know that their youngest son is… dead."

He shook John's hand with an uncharacteristically loose grip and turned on his heel. It did not take Sherlock Holmes to deduce what that meant. John cleared his throat, causing Mycroft to look back over his shoulder.

"You tell me if you need anything, Mycroft. I don't know what I could do, but anything at all…"

"Would you mind telling the news to Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade? You are closer to them than I, and I believe people say that being told bad news by someone you care about makes it easier. I'm not sure if it is true…" Mycroft paused. Of course it was no arbitrary choice that he was going to tell his parents in person. Mycroft Holmes did not act without purpose.

John nodded his agreement. "I will tell them as soon as I can… as soon as it a sinks in."

"Thank you, Dr. Watson. I will extend the same favor to you. If there is anything you need, your family is under my protection. Sherlock's sacrifice will not be in vain."

John bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, but nodded quickly. Both men turned their opposite ways, each to face their own grief. John reentered his house, the home of the family Sherlock had died to keep safe. He silently poured himself a slightly oversized measure of whisky, listening to the steady creak of the rocking chair through the floor above. He could imagine Mary sitting there singing softly, rocking Willa while the baby cooed softly. He wondered if it would be in that chair where she would sit on his knees while he told her the stories of the brave detective and his sidekick.

At the moment, imagining any future at all that did not include Sherlock was to intimidating and depressing, so he carried his drink and the letter to his chair and settled into the cushions. Slowly, he withdrew the letter from the envelope and spread it over his knee. His eyes flew quickly across the familiar scrawl before returning to the top of the page to savor each word as he read. This would be the last contact he ever had with Sherlock.

Dear John,

Writing this I am once again reminded of how insipid the name John is. I cannot even write you a farewell letter without the greeting being a ridiculous cliché. It is, in short, not at all indicative of the extraordinary man you are.

I am writing this letter while in a hideaway in Eastern Europe because Molly urged me to write a letter like this before I took my fall from St. Bart's. She said that it would bring closure. I refused, obviously, because only lies have detail. I am writing now, because it is not a lie. I am placing this letter in the care of my brother, only to be delivered in the inevitable event of my confirmed death. Therefore, if you are reading this, I am dead beyond a doubt. Mycroft may have recovered my body, but I suppose I will neither know nor care at this point. I am no longer in my transport. It is strange to credit that soon I will no longer be knowing or thinking, or caring, actually.

I realize I have come to care, John, for you and your little family. The domestic ideal I had been so derisive of is now an image I like to visit in my mind palace. I received a photo of the three of you, and I do believe all this was worth it because I have never before seen such genuine happiness, never mind been a part of it. Mycroft told me you named the baby Willa. Sentiment, John. I suppose I am touched. He also said that you expressed a desire to name me Godfather. I must advise you that this is obviously a bad decision. Even if I were not faced with an encroaching expiration date, I am perhaps the last person you want to teach your daughter the ways of the Lord. Gavin was probably the better choice all along.

After all the evidence presented the times you spent taking care of me, I can say confidently that you will be an excellent parent. I know you and Mary will raise her well, so that she is not an idiot like the average human. She will be as remarkable as her parents. I hope you tell her about me one day. Maybe you could make our cases into bedtime stories, even if you do romanticize them.

I suppose I am afraid. It is a bit of a novel experience, fearing for my own life, not because I have never believed I would die, but because I never particularly cared. This is one of the many ways you saved me. I have no doubt I would have died long before this if you were not my friend. The cabbie's pill might not have killed me, but some other unnecessary risk would have. I and so many others owe you our lives.

You know I am not a religious man, just as I know you are. I have never wished so much for it all to be true; that some benevolent shepherd will gather me in to the peace and safety of heaven where we will one day be reunited. Even if it is true, I doubt I would make it through the gates. Maybe I will have atoned for my sins enough by working through this terror. Perhaps you have enough faith for the both of us, and that will be enough to snatch my soul from perdition. Even writing it seems foolish. Where have this pit of fire and angelic city been hiding. Seeing is believing. Maybe just wanting to see is enough?

I always knew, with a sort of detached certainty, that I would never grow old. It never really mattered. There were days of intense lethargy where I did not want to go on another day but could not even apply myself to ending it. I have never been afraid of dying. It is merely a biological process. My body will soon feed new life. Having an expiration date has changed things. All the other instincts that quite emphatically do not want to die have made their appearance. I am so close to the end and my survival instinct has never been stronger. I will try to fight it, to return to you, Mary, and baby Willa. Of course, that sentence is entirely for my benefit. If you are reading this letter, I obviously failed.

I meant what I said on the tarmac. They really were the best of times. John Watson, my first friend, it seems that out time together has come to an end. Have new adventures. Please don't mourn me too much; you have mourned me enough for a lifetime. There is a reason I don't do sentiment; I am quite simply not good at it. It is, quite frankly, exhausting. I will say this the best way I know how. John, I am sorry for the pain I caused you when I lied. I am even more sorry that I am not lying now. I hesitate to say "I love you" because society so quickly interprets that to mean romance and sexual desire. That is not at all our relationship, nor is it the sort of relationship I would want with anyone. I know that you know better, though. You are one of the very few people to come even close to understanding me. You are my very best friend and the best years of my life were spent in your company. I do not regret a single day spent with you, or anything that I have done for you. I know you will blame yourself because that is what you do, but please do not. Be happy, John Watson. Raise your daughter and love your wife. Give my love to them both. That is the best memorial you could give me.

Your friend,

Sherlock Holmes

John read the letter, crying and laughing in turns. He carefully folded the paper and returned it to its envelope. He placed it on the coffee table in front of him just so that the edge of the envelope aligned perfectly with the table's edge, opened side down.

He leaned back in his chair, lost in his own head. It was a strange feeling; not at all like the last time. He was not sure he believed it, probably would not until he saw the body. Then he would break again. He would still have Mary, though. She would piece him together like a patchwork again. He also had Willa to think about now. Most of all, he had Sherlock's goodbye sitting on the table in front of him. Inside was all he was denied after Sherlock's apparent suicide—forgiveness, farewell, feeling… and maybe something like closure. If it were not for the finality of it all it would be comforting. Then there was Sherlock's last request. Be happy, John Watson. At the moment, it felt as though the seemingly simple command was the most difficult thing Sherlock had ever asked of him. He could not fail him now, though, not when he gave everything to give John a chance. John Watson would live and be happy because Sherlock Holmes told him to. It was that simple. John had followed Sherlock's lead on everything, and he damn well was not going to stop now.

Review please? It will make me very happy!